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I

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

GIFT OF

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BRUTE
GODS

NOVELS BY LOUIS WILKINSON

A CHASTE MAN
THE BUFFOON
BRUTE GODS

OOPYRIOHT, 1919, BY
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.

GIFT

pBorm nr mi vvxtbd itatm or ammuoa

1U

I

To

GEORGE MOOR

MarkiMgtke Ommg^'Agt
Qftm VtiinkeK Frianddup,

BitUmhtrttn B n Um bar UU

913

CONTENTS

Confusions 9
DiscoosusES 157
Refuge 321

CONFUSIONS

CHAPTEB I

THE terrible ealamity fallen upon the house
of Olaive had sent the master of that
house post-haste to his la^^yers in London.
Mr. Sidney Starr Olaive, estate-agent to the Marquis
of Yetminster, had never been so baffled^ never so
deeply angered, never so humiliated. He had pro-
tracted his absence and those fruitless but sympa-
thetic discussions with the lawyers for a considerably
longer time than was warrantable, except by his
strong disinclination to face the people of his neigh-
bourhood. His younger son had given him an excuse
for delay. The boy was finishing his last term at
school : he was yet to be informed of the tragic family
event, and his father could reasonably wait until the
term ended, meet Alec at Paddington Station and
break the news to him as they travelled down to
Suffolk together.

On the morning after this return Mr. Glaive was
reading Prayers. He addressed his two sons, his
widowed sister, and his servants, in tones of com-
bative assertion of dignity, teased and pulled at by
spleen. He was consoled, dimly, by his sense of the
drama of the occasion, by the jumping and stiffening
of his response to the scene — so familiar, those kneel-
ing domestic figures, under his presidency, and now

that empty chair — ah!

11

12 BRUTE GODS

The thought, rushing, caught him : how carefully he
had chosen this second wife of his, this stepmother for
his children! He had chosen her for her tender-
ness, for her soft dependent ways, for her large de-
voted wistful eyes that promised him the straitest
fidelity, a fidelity almost fanatical. She had had
such a sensitive trustful mouth, the lips rather tremu-
lously apart. He had been old enough then, this little
man with his little fierce fires, to give discretion
the whip-hand of mere passion: it had been a sage
choice, a choice guided by brain, by experience. . . .
So now it was not alone his pride of property that was
injured, but his pride of judgment. . . . Mr. Glaive
choked. Instantaneously convinced that he was suf-
fering from the emotion of a strong smitten man,
he passed his Prayerbook silently to his elder son.
He constrained his lips. ''A motherless homel"
he said to himself, taking comfort in the appeal of the
phrase.

Mervyn read aloud the holy words as rapidly as
he could. He was extremely hungry. The morn-
ing's disorganization had delayed Prayers and break-
fast. Mr. Qlaive watched his son with growing irrita-
tion. He took the book from him, just as the boy was
beginning a new prayer. Mr. Glaive turned the page :
' ' The blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ, ' ' he read in
a vexed dry voice, "the love of (Jod, and" — he
snapped viciously on — ^**the fellowship of the Holy
Ghost . . . world without end, Amen. Johnson, why
are you here!"

The under-gardener had already opened the door.

CONFUSIONS 18

**Beg pardon, sir — " He hesitated awkwardly.
"'Thought as I might fare to come into Prayers

'smomin', dr."

You never do. I mean you only come on Sun-
days. You know perfectly well that only the maids
attend Prayers on week-days."

'^Yes, sir. Seemed sort o' like a Sunday today,
dr."

"You can go, Johnson."

"'Thought he'd better make up the quorum, I
s'pose," Mervyn whispered to his younger brother.
There was silence as the rest of the servants walked
out with self-conscious solemnity. As the door shut,
Alec heard, faintly, the Mtchenmaid's giggle. It
reminded him of the girl's cousin, "Frippie" Clark,
— she had been christened "Blfrida," — ^a wench of
the village. The boys' aunt kept looking over her
brother's head, with nervous glances of a fretful
reprobation which she enjoyed.

"What beastly weather." Mervyn fastened the
two bottom buttons of his corduroy waistcoat. His
father gave him a carefully dramatic glance of aus-
terity tempered by grief. Alec, irritated by the
ihinned-out discontent that his aunt cherished, walked
away to the end of the room, and sat down in the
alcove, by the small-sized billiard-table. Outside, a
sparse rain, weakly persistent, was wetting the discon-
solate Suffolk landscape. The youth turned back,
resting his eyes on the legs of the billiard-table. He
observed Nature no more closely than do most boys
brought up in the country. Mervyn, joining him.

U BRUTE GODS

whispered: '' Christ 1 Nice weather for an elope-
ment''

*'Shut up.'* Alec's lip trembled.

''For God's sake don't go and have a fit of the
giggles."

"I'm not. Do shut up. — It's bad enough the way
you fool in Church. You're awful; always nearly
making me laugh in the middle of reading the Les-

sons."

''You did, that last time, practically. Your
bloomin' silly voice cracked. Why the devil don't
you have more self-control t If you get a laughing-
fit now, the old man'U stick the bread-knife into
you."

'^Well, you shut up, and I won't laugh."

' ' 'Didn 't know I was a humourist. ' '

"Oh, just now anything 'd make one laugh, with
all this rumpus. You know how it is."

"That's rich. I suppose one's Mater runnin' away
with a chap is enough to make a cat laugh, any-
how—"

"Oh, do shut up!" Alec smoothed his quivering
mouth with his hands, turned his head, and gulped.

"Come to breakfast, you boysl" Mr. Glaive called
them. "What's all that whispering about f" He
shot his little fired eyes from one to the other.

"After all," Mervyn lowered his voice still more,
"you can hardly blame the Mater, can you!"

"What's that!"

"Oh, I'm hungry, that's all."

" Hungry f That's either impertinence, or else ut-

CONFUSIONS 16

ter lack of feeling. For what we are about to re-
ceive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. The
fearful blow that has fallen uppn us, and all you can
think about is whether you're hungry/' The aunt
put her bowl of porridge from her. *'I've noticed
that your self-indulgence has got worse and worse
ever since you left the Army." He poured cream
into his porridge. ''Tou could rough it well enough
out there, couldn't yout Now you come back and
you want to turn everything into ar— er — into a veri-
table sty of Epicurus."

'^Sort of a garden he had, though, wasn't itt"
Meivjn queried vaguely. Alec was in agony.

''The general atmosphere — the general atmosphere
— is — It's altogether unspeakable. Moral atmos-
phere. The amount of looseness, of vicious self-in-
dulgence. I never did believe that it was the right
thing for women to go earning their own living.
'Why, there are married women now — ^many of them
— ^who do it. Disgraceful — degrading to their hus-
bands. They'll find that out, soon enough. That's a
large part of our present trouble."

''Earning her own living!" Mrs. Mowry, the
aunt, looked up, deprecating. "But, my dear Sid-
ney, surely ihai wasn't — "

Her brother glared at her, and she dropped her
spoon. "I can't eat," she remarked, concentrating
her gaze on the heavy spoonful of porridge and cream
that went its automatic way to Mr. Glaive's red-
moustached lips.

We are not urging you to eat, Catherine. — ^I sup-

if

16 BRUTE GODS

poee it is impossible for some people to understand
a detached and general conversation. I was taking a
wide view of the state of our times. I hope I can
lift myself above my own personal grie& and injur-
ies. They have never yet affected my judgment.
Women are incapable of that kind of detachment.
Entirely incapable. What I have to say about this
personal matter I shall say to you all at the right time,
in proper place. You will kindly be in my Study at
eleven o'clock this morning. And — '' He lowered
his pale sparse eyebrows with their obstinate project-
ing hairs showing like hairs that pierce through a
thin sock : he looked hard at his sister. * ' Catherine :
I must ask you not to refer to the subject in any sort
of way. I am sorry that I should need to ask you.
I should have thought— -while we are at breakfast — "

' * Mixin ' it all up with the porridge, ' ' Mervyn dole-
fully whispered.

Alec choked, and caught his napkin to his mouth.
He gave out a suppressed sound like a whinny. His
father regarded the boys in astonishment and rage.

'* Unpardonable!" he exclaimed. "Ungentle-
manly. Tou take a mean advantage of my deafness.
I won't ask you what you said, Mervyn. You would
only tell me an untruth. Alec : you think it's behav-
ing like a gentleman to sit there and neigh like a
maret I will not have such conduct at my table.
A scene of this kind — ^this morning." In deep dis-
taste of the actual fact, he gave a moment's survey to
the contrasting and becoming picture which should
have been presented by the family on that occasion.

CONFUSIONS 17

**Yoti are both utterly without — " Alec could bear
his torture of suppression no longer. ''Yes, I'm glad
you retain decency enough to leave the table."

^^I can eat nothing, Sidney/' Mrs. Mowry faltered,
upturning her weak obstinate face. ''You will ex-
cuse me, too?" Mr. Qlaive nodded.

He was left alone with Mervyn. No longer
obliged to regard a general family effect, and anxious
to get his son on his side, he changed his manner.

"My boy, I want your — er — support. I'll be
perfectly frank. I need you. I can't stand alone —
not at my age — ^not under a blow like this. I'm
not a weakling, I hope, but there are times when a
man must lean — or, well, to some extent depend —
on his son. Alec's a baby. You're a man grown.
You had a year of the war: in a way, I suppose,
you've 'seen life' more than I have. Now we must
look this horrible business in the face. Of course
we shall be exposed to ridicule — "

"Good Lord! Is there any chance of their get-
tin' wind of it up at Magdalen t" Mervyn 's blue
eyes clouded.

"At Magdalen f I was thinking, of course, of our
neighbourhood. Oxford's some way off."

"What exactly did old Keeling advise t WiU you
get a divorce?"

"Oh — ^why, yes, yes, of course, certainly. I must
— er — ^vindicate myself. Keeling — ^well, of course,
Keeling—"

Mervyn, forgetting for the moment his cultivated
civilian slouch, got up and helped himself to some

18 BRUTE GODS

cold ham from the sideboard. His military figure,
80 straightly yet so easily poised, was in agreeable
contrast with his lounging dress — ^the soft grey cloth
coat, the loosely knotted bow tie, the flannel trousers
of a lighter shade of gr^, the elegant light-coloured
socks and brown leather slippers. His wavy hair
was almost flaxen, worn rather long.

His father watched him, with a half-suppressed
fleck of envy in his narrowed shrewd glance. His
day was over, but he felt damnably capable of being
young; the more so for Mrs. Glaive's desertion of
him.

''I can't let that scoundrel get off so easily, can
It"

"Well, I shouldn't go makin' any — ^you know, too
much beastly fuss about the thing." Mervyn cut
his ham deliberately.

Mr. Glaive stood up by the mantelpiece. He raised
himself on his toes.

"The worml He ought to pay for it; hell have
to. Keeling & Marshall would get me thumping
damages." He squinted down his nose. "Look
here: look at this letter I found in her room. Shows
just the kind of slimy underhanded — "

"I say, don't let's go reading his beastly letters — "

" 'My dear lady' — ^that's how he started it. 'My
dear lady'l"

"Well, he writes novels or something, don't het"

"Your stepmother could receive a letter like this.
No doubt she liked getting it. The gross ingratitude
and deception. I tell you, my boy, I never could

CONFUSIONS 19

have believed — ^And that kind of a man! To think
of her consenting to read such stuff as this I" Mr.
Glaive was happier now. '' 'I have not seldom
thought of what you told me/ '' he began reading.

*' What's that! Why couldn't the fool have said
'often't"

*'My dear Mervyn, that's the literary touch." Mr.
Glaive was enjoying himself. Little sarcasms always
re-established his self-esteem. *^ 'And believe me, I
have thought in sympathy.' " He read with twisted
lips, in a whining drawL ** *If I may without pre-
sumption offer you my sympathy, then I beg of you
to accept it. Sometimes even one who is compara-
tively a stranger may make this offer, and the touch
of a hand, even though it be only for a brief instant
in passing, may do somewhat toward healing.'
BeaUy, Mervyn, I must ai>ologize for reading this to
you while you're eating your breakfast. *In suffer-
ing of the spirit there is an appeal that is wide as
the spirit itself: you were right to say the word to
me — ^more right, perhaps, than if we had been more
intimately acquainted.' "

''When is this bilge dated!"

"There's no date and no address. The fellow never
puts them. Much too undistinguished and commer-
cial for a man of letters to think of dates. His
mind's too full of the beautiful things he's going
to write, especially when he's writing to a lovely
lady! Heh! Postmark's end of May — about two
months ago. — ^You see, she must have written to him
without my knowledge. — 'I feel that I must answer

20 BRUTE GODS

your letter — ' * Epistle' would have been a daintier
term, Mervyn, don't you think! — ^'must answer by
something more than the silent thought that you have
already — as you will know — ^had from me.' "

Mervyn finished his last cup of coffee and squeaked
his chair.

'' Nearly finished. He didn't use more than one
sheet, at that stage. Didn't want to overdo the ef-
fect." The man's reddish eyes glistened. ''The last
sentence, that's a gem. 'My hope is that your ways
may win through light that grows, on to peace. ' ' '

"My God!"

' ' A master of English, Mervyn. ' Thanking you for
your letter' — ^he underlines 'thanking' — ^' Believe me,
my dear friend, most sincerely your well-wisher,
Hugh Halley Carlyon-Williams.' "

"Well, I wouldn't trouble any more about a chap
like that. Why not let the thing gof What's the
point f He's not worth — "

"Yes, but how about hert That's what hits me,
my boy." Mr. Glaive deepened his voice. "The
hideous ingratitude of it. I had given her every-
thing — ^freely — as you know. An old and honourable
name, a position in the county — ^not wealth, but
ample sufficiency; she lacked for nothing. My con-
stant affection and consideration. Why — I can say
it to you, Mervyn, you're a man — I considered her
delicacy of health — so far as to spare her from — ^ah
— ^maternity : even though Dr. Eesine-— er — ^waived the
matter, I thought it better to avoid the risk — for
her sake. Are there many husbands — I ask yout

CONFUSIONS 21

My constant indulgence — ^f or five years. And she oan
write to that cur about 'spiritual suffering.' Make-
believe I Women grow discontented if they're well
treated, that's it. Just because I didn't palaver like
that bounder! Because I'm a plain man, and not a
monkey." He pulled down his mustard-coloured
waistcoat with a virile gesture. ''No gentleman could
have written such stuff. 'Hugh Halley'!" He
ejected the name in a thin whistle. "Women dont
recognize a gentleman — don't know his value — ^any
cad can catch them. Well, shell degrade."

"I 8 'pose hell still go on writin' about what the
war has done for our ideals and our art an' that sort
of thing."

''Let him. This thing will hit him, though. The
British Public won't stand hypocrigy. Let him try
to make them believe that adultery is one of the new
ideals — ^let him see I Well stamp on him. There are
some men who want boot-prints on their faces — ^with
the heel in their mouths. Swine 1 Thank Qi>Ay
Christianity isn't dead yet — Christian morality isn't
dead, I have that on my side."

"I don't know so much. WUliams is the sort of
chap who can get out of anything. He'll be as moral
as any of them about it all. And the laugh '11 be on
us. You know what you said, ridicule and that."

"I don't care. Ill bring action. It'll hurt him
more than me. We're in for the scandal, anyhow."
people in Suffolk were taking the "scandal"; but he
He hesitated, wanting to know from Mervyn how
could not bring himself to ask. He construed his

22 BRUTE GODS

cowardice as dignity. "I must defend our honour/'
he added.

**A11 right. I'd think it over, though. When
things get into the papers, it makes all the differ-
ence. Williams is pretty well known. He wouldn't
mind — "

''Gad, yes: he'd make speeches in court, and all
the ladies would say what a beautiful voice ! ' '

''Good advertisement. For him, not for us. He'd
get back ten times any damages, and he knows it.
Probably write a book about the case — ^'unwritten
law' — ^you know the kind of thing."

'^'It's monstrous, Mervyn; a monstrous injustice.
The most outrageous thing is that she can keep her
own money — all of it. Why, it makes me feel dead
ashamed of English lawt But I shall sue." Mr.
Glaive was getting angry again. "I believe in doing
the right thing regardless of consequences. I'd get
thumping damages, whatever he might make out of
it afterwards. I'd score in that. He'd bleat at
having to pay ten or fifteen thousand, wouldn't he,
eht What d 'you think!"

"I'd wait a bit."

"Wait! Well, anyhow, there's the present to be
thought of. I suppose I shall have to have a house-
keeper." Mr. Glaive's mouth loosened, and he looked
down his nose again. "Your aunt's useless. — Now,
to take things from your point of view: this affair
has thrown a burden on you. A sort of moral burden.
We have to show people that we're not tarred with
the same dirty brush, you see thatf Make Alec see

CONFUSIONS 28

that! He'll have to be precious careful bow be be-
haves in the neighbourhood. You're two goodlook-
ing boys — ^no harm my telling you that — and of course
I know what temptation is. I don't pretend to be a
stone. People 11 be on the look-out. Of course you 're
engaged. I wasn't thinking of you, of course not.
But I hope you've been carefol how you talk. Ig-
nore the affair, of course. Be distant if any one takes
up too lE^ympathetic an attitude, especially if it's a
social inferior. That's the most dignified way — ^the
best bred way. Never forget that you're a Qlaive."

"Oh, Lord," thought Mervyn, "now we're in for
the great Glaive sermon."

"The Olaives are as good as the Freyles. They're
better. The baronetcy's really older than any of
their titles. Dates back before any of Lord Yet-
minster's ancestors were heard of. I should never
dream of mentioning it outside the family, of course.
But a man should realize his birth, especially in these
times. It makes all the difference in the world. We
can hold up our heads, whatever happens. Carlyon-
Williams ! I should like to know of any Carlyon-Wil-
liams who's legally entitled to bear arms I Contemp-
tible fellows. How she could — ^Reminds me of
Hamlet. 'Gould you on this fair mountain leave to
feed, And batten on this moorf "

He gave his short stature a gesture of affirmation.
Mervyn 's lip twitched, as he glanced at the "fair
mountain. ' ' He wished Alec had been there.

"We have our family faults. We're quick-tem-
pered—excitable — too passionate, perhaps. Our

24 BRUTE GODS

blood runs hot. But no Glaive has ever been gwlty
of a mean or a base action." He spoke with nnim-
pu^nable sincerily. ^' We've always sapi>orted the
great Causes, the great traditions. Fonght for Crom-
weUf helped William of Orange to the throne, sup-
ported the Protestant Church and the Constitution
— ^father to son. Freedom within the law : faith with-
out superstition. The foundations of a good life are
ours by inheritance. WeVe never known disgrace
or dishonour, never broken faith — '*

Mervyn yawned. All this was meaningless to him.
He began wondering what his father would do when
he found out how much he owed the Oxford trades-
men.

^'Remember that we can't be disgraced. We take
disgrace and make a glory" of it! That's the spirit 1
Williams I — ^What do you think, my boy, do you
think they'd give five thousand damages? More, per-
haps T He'd feel it more if he were older, though.
You know what they say. When a man's twenty, he
wants to look well, when he's thirty he wants to do
well — ^when he's forty, to be well — ^when he's fifty,
to *cut up' well. Not true, that, though," he added
hurriedly. **I'm not thinking of 'cutting up* yet,
I've my time. — ^Don't you go looking at me as though
I were an octogenarian. When a man's only about
fifty, he isn't dead yet, is het Well — " Mervyn
was obviously restless. ''Be on your guard. Re-
member your name. Hold up Alec's head for him,
and don't let your aunt make more of a fool of her-

CONFUSIONS 25

self than she has to— poor ereatorei Of coarse

99

The door opened. ''His lordship is in the Stady,
sir.''

''Ah. Yes, yes, of course. I mig^ht have ex-
pected — '' Mr. Glaive looked gratified: he tamed
to the mirror, fiddled with his horse-shoe pin,
smoothed his faded yellowish hair. "Of coarse he
woold come. Motor over to Bloyce's, Mervyn, and
get that mortgage business settled. Your law ought
to be fresher than mine. Get back by eleven, if you
can. But well wait for you.'*

Mervyn rose as his father went to receive the con-
dolences of the Marquis. Mr. Glaive, in his neatly
cut morning coat and his taut check trousers, left the
room carrying his little head rather to one side, and
farther stating himself with his spry and wary back.
The door stayed open, and the boy and the servant
heard something of the preliminary approaches: "I
wished to express to you personally — following my
letter — most sincere sympathies — ^great shock to us —
you know the great regard — ^Lady Yetminster and I
— always your friends — " Then from the husband
and father, in a voice sharpened by excitement: "T
am very much touched — do indeed appreciate, and
thank you — act of real friendship — ^in fact, Lord Yet-
minster, I'm quite incapable of expressing what I
fed — '* The Study door closed.

Mervyn threw open the French window and
walked out on to the drive. It had stopped raining.

26 BRUTE GODS

He whistled, and soon his brother joined him, with
flushed fiiee and indignant eyes.

*'You perfect ass," said Alec. "I've been waiting
about to get in and finish my breakfast, but you and
he would keep on jabbering. 'Don't want to go now,
though. Sick of waiting."

"I can't help it. You will do these tUngs. You
ought to know by now that it isn't behaving like a
gentleman to neigh like a mare. ' '

'^Oh, shut up. You can't make me laugh now.
You might be as funny as you could stick together,
and it wouldn't make me laugh. Just because it
wouldn't matter if I did, I suppose. How damn silly !
— What did he sayt" They walked down towards
the garage.

"Oh, the usual gag. Business about bein' a
blasted Glaive. And you're to keep up the honour
of the family, after this, by not takin' any notice
of girls and always talkin' proper. Dear old dad
isn't sure if hell get enough cash out of Williams
to make it worth while, but if he can annoy the chap
badly, he may bring action anyhow. I'm against it.
It 'd be a horrid niusance, particularly while I'm up
at Oxford. Don't think the old bird 11 do it, but
he'd make himself damn uncomfortable, so's to hit
Williams."

"You seem cheerful enough. I don't half like it.
Why, it's the sort of thing that hardly ever happens.
We shall both look awful fools — "

"Oh, what's the oddst You ought to have been a
few years older. After you've been mixed up in that

CONFUSIONS 27

mess, all you want is to live an' have a good time,
an' never see a uniform. I shan't ever give or take
a salute again, that's enough for me. War's over.
What's the odds t — ^Wake up in a bed, have a bath and
be a civilian. You don't think anything of a little
thing like this. She isn't our mother, either. And
anyhow nothing's worth fossing over. 'Pity Wil-
liams is such an ass, though."

Alec, puzzled, scrutinized his brother. He did not
at all understand how deeply, yet how lightly and ami-
ably, Mervyn was disillusioned. ''I see the Bat's
come," he said.

''Yes; with the old man in the Study now. I've
got to drive over to Bloyce's."

''Auntie's puzzling in her room. She got Mogg-
ridge to send her breakfast up."

'"Course she did. Any one could see she was
really as hungry as a whale. Wish she'd eloped in-
stead of the Mater. I hate Aunt Cathy worst of all
my aunts, but I s'pose that's only because she lives
with us. If I wasn't as lazy as a tortoise I'd clear
out and get something to do in London. 'Don't fancy
trottin' round seein' after the Bat's tenants all my
life — ^just like the guv 'nor. But, Lord, what's the
oddst Comin' along?"

"No, don't think so."

"Well, don't go messin' about with Prippie.
She's a rotter, anyhow. Some fellow's gone and
bitten her chin already."

Mervyn sauntered off. Alec's face grew grave
and troubled. He walked away, over the lawn.

28 BRUTE GODS

through the gate that led into the field— a youth
somewhat over-tall, with an undisciplined figure.
Girls who liked him thought of his eyes, which were
of a yery dark brown-^impressionable eyes, and large ;
contrasting startlingly with his russet hair that had
enough light of gold in it for him to have been called
''Carrots" at school. A less hackneyed nickname
was ''Autumn Tints." His face was long, and high-
coloured: he blushed very easily, to a tormentingly
vivid scarlet. His round chin hinted weakness of
will, but this suggestion was modified, at least, by a
certain grimness and almost bitterness often showing
in the close lines of his mouth — ^a small mouth, though
with full enough lips. He baiBed prediction, so evi-
dently exposed as he was, so susceptible to change,
so ready for any one of a score of diverse moulds.
But "volatile" was not the word to touch him: his
surrender to influence would be too seriously made,
with too much energy; and he would colour each in-
fluence with himself, subdue it to himself, perhaps.
His long legs now took him rapidly over the field
towards Father CoUett's Vicarage. "You can hardly
blame the Mater. ' ' Mervyn's careless words had gone
deep. Alec struck out from them, and was lost. His
mind swam in the first surge of the event, but could
not breast eddies nor touch bottom. His step-
mother — He tried, wonderingly, to see her. . . .

Mrs. Glaive's adulterous desertion had postponed
Aunt Catherine's breakfast — a trifling piece of dis-
comfort for the heartfelt satisfaction she had had in
a surprise so stirring: it had set the brain of the

CONFUSIONS 29

master of the house working keen on nice balances
of loss and profit, in the intervals of self -dedication to
Christian morality: the settled Mervyn's amiable
securities it had sensibly though not too rudely rufSed.
In Alec, the sense of the ''calamity" began to vex
for organic growth.

CHAPTEE II

ALEC crossed the road from the field and
struck out skirting the Golf Course. The
flat treeless drained marshland was rough-
ened and brightened by bushes of lively yellow gorse.
Their lavish buxom odour assailed him, in blend with
the smart-tasting sea air. All this could not help:
it could stand anything — ^any beastly thing that might
happen. That impudent excessive shouting gorse!
If only he could insult this ''Nature," which had be-
come really noticeable to him now for the first time.
Alec swished his stick through one of the clumps,
scattering the offensive bright stuff. He remembered
the Suffolk boy who had been found beating a toad
and calling out, between the strokes: "I'll lam
yer to be a toad, 111 lam yer!" Perhaps that boy
was angry with some one else. But it was not so
much that Alec was angry with his father; such mere
anger would not, of course, have been unusual for
him. His emotion was one of new and highly con-
scious hatred. He was overpowered by and wonder-
ing at this quickening of hatred as a woman is by
the quickening of a child : it was a portent of growth,
significant, disquieting, uncertain; it was something
that would grow not only in itself, but in other parts
of him, in very much else. , . ,

As Alec walked, he did not think at all of his step-

30

CONFUSIONS 81

mother, but his father emerged for him rapidly and
eontinnoiisly in a score of those repeated postures
of the past. He saw him in his morning irritability,
glinting his liverish eye from point to point of the
room during the assembling for Prayers, then pounc-
ing with the sharpened little claws of his sarcastic
and malevolent speech. "Is there some cryptic rea-
son, Mervyn, for your turning yourself into a public
advertisement of brainless vanity t That necktie and
those socks may serve some other purpose, but if they
do, it is hidden from me." — ^^'What is the point.
Alec, of that ridiculous pose you've taken to lately
of folding your arms? I see youVe even gone to
the lengths of perpetuating yourself in a photo-
graph in that attitude." — ^''Catherine, do pray use
some sort of endeavour not to commit yourself to
further folly."

There was no personal peculiarity of any one of the
three of them that he did not customarily gibe at,
with intent. He knew just where the nerves were
that would respond with sensitive and continued
vibration. Alec, in retrospect, smarted most keenly
under the memories of his earlier boyhood, fed his
hate most on them. He recalled the time when he
used to have dancing lessons. ''Well, my little danc-
ing-man! Strike up! Trarla-la, fol-de-rol!" His
father would skip and jump on the hearthrug,
grotesquely encircling an imaginary partner, con-
torting his lips to the parody of a social smile. —
There used to be Shakespeare readings, with a group
of neighbours sitting round the drawing-room of one

82 BRUTE GODS

or another of their houses. Hia father always took the
most prominent part, he would read with extraor-
dinary oleyemess, with a brilliant sense of certain
values of the characters. ^'Your interpretation of
Jacques — ^it 's masterly, Mr. Glaive — ^masterly I ' ' Mrs.
Sevan, the retired actress, had complimented him:
Alec could see clearly the deprecating bend of his
father's head, his creeping smile. . . . Alec had had
to read ''Silvius," the shepherd. His father had
made him rehearse before the family. He knew that
the boy, beiag then at the most sensitive and morbid
period of the awkward age, could hardly be trusted
to make Silvius's declarations of love expressively
without a little practice. ''Oh, Phebe, Phebe,
Phebe ! • ' the lad read, in a cracking voice, his cheeks
throbbing. ''Oh, feeble, feeble, feeble!" his father
shot out, with again that familiar creeping smile.
At the meeting itself, Alec had read sullenly and
monotonously. "If you want everybody to think
you a numskull, that's the way to do it!" Mr. Glaive
had been too much occupied with his own triumph as
Jacques to make any further comment then. Mervyn
had played truant, his part had been read by some
one else, Alec envying him his courage. Later on, he
had followed its example.

At about fifteen he had begun his defiance, when
he had set himself stubbornly not to allow that moist-
ening sting of his eyes to help his father's favourable
occasions. He would leave the room. "You can-
not go when I'm talking to you, sir: haven't you the
manners of a gentleman t" To counter this rebellion.

CONFUSIONS 88

Mr. Olaive had stopped his son's pocket money —
''nntil you see fit to apologize for yonr rudeness."
^'Stop it for ever, then!" Alec had told him, bringing
ing home the unpleasing fact that the son was grow-
ing up out of former reach. The punishment did not
last long. '' Stopped your pocket money, has he, the
old skinflint I" young Lord Aldborough, Lord Yet-
minster's son, had observed to Alec under the Study
window. Mr. Glaiye overheard, and in a few days he
handed out the boy's allbwance with an air of large
generosity. ''An act of grace," he had said: ''but
remember, when you choose to be stubborn in later
life, you won't always have a father to deal with. I
can't treat you now as though you'd reached a re-
sponsible age." He could not stand being censured
for parsimony by a young Earl.

Lord Aldborough — ^Lord Yetminster — Lord Charles
Pr^yle — ^Lord Derek — ^Lady Barbara — ^how they had
overflowed on them, those people — swamped them.
Alec's father's house and everything in it seemed a
sort of backwash from Lord Yetminster's great
"country seat." And Alec's father, for all that
I>erx>etual insistence of his — ^"A Glaive is as good as
a Freyle, and better" — ^all the more, indeed, for that
assertive repetition, his father seemed responsible for
their shadowed situation, guilty of it. The boy did
not ask why, nor how, but he bitterly felt that any
man with real pride would not have put himself and
his family under that big rich house, under all those
titles that towered and bristled. It was not that any
of the Freyles emphasized their rank; they did not»

84 BRUTE GODS

not even Lord Aldborough, who was the only one at
all inclined to arrogance. It was Alec's father who
was for ever putting his sons into that discomfiting
conscious relation to the Marqnisate and its ap-
panages. Members of the Freyle family had loomed
heavily for Mervyn and Alec almost from their in-
fancy. '* Never say *Lord Freyle.* Only outsiders
and foreigners do that. ' Lord Charles Freyle. ' Say-
ing 'Lord Freyle' will stamp you as a bounder at
once, remember that, Mervyn," "In conversation
you say 'Lord Yetminster'; in addressing an envelope
put the full title. You see, as I've just written it
Same with Lord Aldborougfa — ^'The Earl of A^d-
borough' only in addressing letters. You boys drop
the title when you're with him, of course: you're near
enough to his age."

They were all "equals": how his father had rubbed
that in! And his father lied; they weren't equals.
Even if the Olaive family had been older — ^and it
was not; Alec's uncle always laughed at the preten-
sion — but even if it had been, there were hundreds
of distant cousins to baronets, and marquises were
rare. Sir Julian was an impoverished degraded
baronet, too, he associated chiefly with jockeys and
horsey adventurers, no one of his own class had any-
thing to do with him, he was a drunken red-jowled
"sport," with all the usual vices. He was the third
baronet, the creation being mere Victorian, given for
contributions to the Liberal Parly chest That old
fake of its being a revival of a title extinct since
James the Second 1 Alec's resentment grew still more

CONFUSIONS 85

hostile. — ^The Freyles didn't regard them as equals,
AldboroQgh had called formally on Mervyn at Ox-
ford, and with Mervyn 's return call there was an
end of the matter. He knew Mervyn as his father's
agent's son at home, but that was no reason for his
knowing him anywhere else. And the ''county
I)eople" didn't think them ''equals." Their old
name! Why, even if it had been old — Jim Bovey,
the cobbler, was a blood-relative of Lord Beauvais,
Alec had heard Lord Beauvais say he was practically
certain of it. It wasn't your name that counted,
it was your position ; any one could see that, yet his
father had fooled them with these false values, ex-
posed them to all the choking bitterness of snobbery,
handicapped them at the start, stopped their breath
for the race. No wonder the Mater couldn't stand
it — ^that and everything else —

It had been stupid and cruel. Alec's friend Wil-
fred Vail had first made him see these things, had
cured him of this Glaive pretentiousness. "We
middledass people," Vail would say, shocking Alec
terribly in their early acquaintanceship. "I thought
tradesmen were middledass," he had replied. "Oh,
'upper middledass' for us, if you insist on it, my dear
boy!" Alec saw very soon how much easier Wil-
fred's undervaluation of his social position made life
for him, how it freed him from strain and left him
open to the flow of his interests. He could figure
his father's consciousness, in Yail's place, of the fact
that all his "people" had belonged to the recognized
professions, and that his great-unde had been Lord

36 BRUTE GODS

Chancellor. But Vail drew his straight line between
himself and the county families; drew it as sharp and
black-dear as one of the lines in his excellent
mechanical diagrams. He had a singularly French
mind, a mind of certainties, bent on simplification of
issues by accuracy and logic.

Unwittingly, Wilfred Vail had opened Alec's eyes
to this particular wrong done him by his father, this
ridiculous entangling of him in pretence. His
father's vanity needed lies for its support, and the
nurturing of a family on those lies lent them substance
of conviction, strengthened them for their mean
ministrations. Alec had come to realize this, from
Wilfred, a year ago; he had condemned his father
then, resenting him, despising him, angry that he and
Mervyn should have been set thus blindfolded and
befooled in the way of worldly ridicule. Every one
in East Suffolk had heard the story of Mrs. Conyers
and her Manx kitten: smart little Mrs. Conyers on
the Station platform, dumping the grotesque little
tailless beast into a comer of her carriage, with:
"Now, then, Tips, behave : remember you're a Manx ! "
This and other such humorous satiric strokes of the
neighbourhood had gained point and sting for Alec
since his friendship with Wilfred Vail.

But the illumination of this present event was much
more powerful. It revealed the past under a much
broader gauge of light, it threw meaningly into their
mutual relationship the different integral parts of his
father's evil. Now, after the first joltings and
blurrings of Alec's focus, this vindictive clarity took

CONFUSIONS 87

settled place. He had never felt his vision so keen,
his brain so active and sore. His friend Wilfred had
often said to him: ''You need intellectual quicken-
ing/' Well, now he had it, this quickening. His
old double confnsuig consciousness of his father was
gone for good. Before, there had been a queer com-
posite picture of the father's advertised self and his
self as shown in daily act. The advertisement, dis-
played by Olaive himself, by the aunt, by Alec's step-
mother, and in earlier days by the housekeeper and
the boys' nurse, was of a man just and self -controlled,
honourable and generous, kind and clever, a good man
and a good father, entitled to respect and obedience
by natural right. From as far back in childhood as
either of the boys could remember, the association
of these qualities with their father had been im-
pressed: and the impression of his actual self had
been working upon them for the same length of
time. Now, all this advertisement was peeled quite
away, the authentic and consistent man emerged un-
plastered, and Alec, seeing his father for the first
time, for the first time realized that he was his father,
and so for the first time he could really hate him.

The boy walked more rapidly, his hatred caught
sick and cold at his belly. What right had his father
had to cheat and hurt them like this — as he had
cheated and hurt them when they were such kids,
and didn't know, and couldn't do anything? If
he had flogged them, that wouldn't have been so bad.
Alec had been flogged, of course, at his public school ;
that only mattered for the time, all the other chaps

88 BRUTE GODS

were swished too, no one thought anything of it.
His father had never beaten either him or Mervyn.
''That wouldn't have amused himl" He liked to be
cleverer than that in making them cry. Alec very
clearly remembered Mervyn 's shame at being seen cry-
ing; Mervyn had been angry with him for having
seen, he had taken him by the wrist and punched
his arm, with tears in his own eyes. Well — ^nothing
their father said could ever make either of them cry
again, they had been hardened in that way. All the
same, he had left his marks, and he was there. He
still had power, he would always be doing something
to somebody. The man's active malevolence flashed
on Alec. What had he done to the Mater to make
her clear out like tHatt

The Mater — It was very puzzling to think of her,
because she seemed, somehow, to have become a new
person. It had always been impressed upon Alec
that he loved her very much. Certainly it was odd,
the house without her. She had always been some-
body whom you had to remember to greet, to say
good morning and good night and good-bye to, and
on whose account you were not to make too much
noise. *'Not very strong" they said of her. That
too had been impressed on the boy — ^also the fact of
her beauty, so much so that the word ''beautiful"
instantly associated itself with her. And he had
realized, with definite pride, that she was much better
to look at than the women of other households. . It
used to seem hard luck on other boys that they should
have to have their kind of mothers. Alec remembered

CONFUSIONS 89

how the Mater used to look, in the hall, on her way
out for a motor-drive. She wore black furs. His
mind strained out to her. Once when they were
all at the theatre in London, she had said to him:
**Tou do enjoy it, darling, don't yout" That
memory stood out very clear, but nothing came of it ;
it hung suspended, without contact The Mater was
a '* beautiful,*' "not very strong" person, closely
connected with several things you had to r^nember,
with her place at the dining-table, with being "in
her room,'' where she had not uncommonly stayed, in-
visible to Alec and Mervyn, for days together. When
she spoke she made you want to answer in the same
kind of low voice. Alec's acceptance of her had been
of that completely incurious and passive kind given
by young people to the elders who live with them.
Tet for all this, and for all the little he had seen or
thought of her, she was involved, deeply, in his idea
of "home": he always felt she was tibere. Now she
was not, and the readjustments, the challenges
clamouring out of that fact were too much for the
boy. He stopped his ears to them: he recalled that
remark of Mervyn 's to keep them off.

Of course Mervyn was absolutely right. The Mater
was well out of it, you couldn't blame her. Only, as
Mervyn said, it was a pity that silly fool Williams
had to be mixed up in it. Alec determined not to
accept any condolences, direct or indirect. Father
Collett would say something^about it — so would Wil-
fred Vail — and he would tell them that he thought
— ^that he knew his stepmother was right. There had

40 BRUTE GODS

been enongh lies: he wouldn't be like his father. But
it wasn't only a question of his father; there were
all these other people, the neighbours. They would
lie too, they would all of them say the Mater had
done wrong, they would say th^ were sorry for his
father, ihey would support him. — Perhaps there
hadn't been any special thing his father had done
to her, it had been just his general beastliness, gen-
eral ''bloodiness," that she couldn't stand any longer.
Before the rest of the family he had always behaved
pretty decently to her, he wasn't rude as he was to
Aunt Cathy, he didn't row her as her rowed the
others. Alec understood, without worded thought,
that his father's feeling for Mrs. Glaive as his per-
sonal property prevented him from compromising
himself by that kind of attack upon her. He realized,
too, that his father's perpetual air of superior forbear-
ance with his wife might well be worse to put up
with, day in and day out, than any ridicule or in-
sult. And there had been certain galled raking tones
sometimes carried to the boy's ears from the big bed-
room. ''What a stupid woman 1" he had overheard
once: a remark that had touched his memory
strangely. For how could "the best mother, the best
woman in the world," as his father had often as-
sured them she was, be stupid t He knew that he
had heard that remark before, said in just that way,
in just that place ; he thought he must have dreamed
it, till gradually there came from very early child-
hood the remembrance of his father having exclaimed
upon his real mother in the same phrase.

CONFUSIONS 41

Alec's real mother was vague and distant, but he
remembered one thing about her now, he remembered
how she had once cried. She had been reading him
a story of Hans Andersen, a story about Cupid, the
little boy who had hit every father and mother with his
arrow. ''You can ask your mother if this is not
true.'' Alec indignantly had asked. ''Yes," she re-
plied, and then turned her face and cried with a
violence of misery that amazed the child and shocked
him.

It never occurred to Alec that Mrs. Glaive might
be "in love" with Carlyon-Williams, he could not
imagine her "in love" with .anybody: a romantic
elopement was too incongruous with his household
associations with his stepmother for him to take a
moment's view of it. But he knew that what to him-
self he called "the smutty part of it" would be vivid
to every one, and this shamed and annoyed him. He
knew the kind of whispering slant-eyed interest that
would be taken by people like Mr. McGill, the lay-
reader — ^the "Purity Ghoul," as Mervyn called him,
because of his bony sallow face and his activity in
a certain organization that aimed at the promotion
of virtuousness in "thought, word, and deed." He
knew, too, that whenever anything "smutty" came
in, people always laughed, and that in this case they
would laugh chiefly at his father. It was some satis-
faction that his father would mind being laughed at,
it was paying him back. He had made his family
a laughing-stock, now he'd be one himself — ^"us, too,
I suppose, but I don't carel

ff

42 BRUTE GODS

Alec's mind went to the adolescent abortive '4oTe-
afiFairs" of Mervyn and himself, to the peculiar acute-
ness and eagerness of his father's ridicule of them —
an eagerness sharpened by jealousy, if the boy had
known it. ''How's our baby Bomeo this morning f"
Mervyn had raised his hand at that query, afterwards
he told Alec that he had wanted to hit the old man
hard: ''Qod knows why I didn't: I wish I had. I
will next time." But nothing came of that. . . . The
curious thing was that the father seemed furtively
proud of Mervyn 's amours, just as he was of Mervyn 's
extravagances: ''Young dog, I tell you, Besine — "
Alec had overheard the sly comment to their doctor:
"young dog, I caught him . . . better look out for
him, Besine." And Dr. Besine had laughed, he had
said something about "the green tree and the dry."
People always laughed about things of this kind, they
laughed or they were oddly excited, or, like Mr. Mc-
Qill, they were earnestly disturbed.

He began wondering if Frippie Clark would be
an3rwhere about that morning. He hadn't seen her
since the half-term holiday — six or seven weeks ago.
Mervyn thought him "a bit of a rotter" for having
anything to do with the girl, Mervyn had changed
in some ways since he got engaged to Nita Besine.
Wilfred Vail disapproved, too: "I don't like it.
Alec, your fooling about with these village
'mawthers.' " Alec had not answered, but his lips
grew grim. He resented Wilfred's speaking of
Frippie as though there were lots of other village
girls just like her. She was quite different, she didn't

CONFUSIONS 48

make him shy, he never felt himself blushing with
her, she put him at ease, and she thought something
of him. Other girls didn't tell him where they were
going to pick blackberries or look for fossil-shells,
and if they had, they wouldn't have been alone when
he got there, they wouldn't have said, in that friendly
way: '*Well, give us a kiss, come on." He didn't
care whether other people thought he ought to go
seeing Frippie or not ; he didn't care now. He wasn't
going to trouble himself any more about whether it
was right. People were wrong about the Mater's
going away, and they were probably wrong about
other things: they were wrong about this. He'd do
as he pleased : he'd consult himself, not them. Byron
had done as he pleased, and he was a great man.
He'd tell Wilfred that. Again Alec swished at the
gorse, and his lips tightened.

His father had said that he was to be careful how
he behaved. That meant that his good behaviour
would be a sort of protection to his father, like the
neighbours' sympathy, like their opinions. Well, he
wouldn't! If his father and the others didn't like it,
so much the better.

CHAPTEB III

ON arrival at Father Gollett's, Alec found him-
self nervous. ^'Oood morning/' he said,
without looking at the priest. ''I didn't
think it would turn out so fine, did yout The rain
seems quite to have — ^to have — stopped altogether, you
know."

''My dear Alec," said the Anglican Father. He
held the boy's hand, and drew him towards a chair
that had its back to the light

''You heard at once, I suppose!"

"Servants are couriers."

"And I didn't know — all this time."

"My dear boy, I hope this won't aflfect your life
— ^wrongly. It's that that matters, for us."

Alec did not answer nor look up. In reaction to
the confusions and fermentations and exhaustions
that the morning had dealt him, his mind lay back:
lying in the wash of spent emotion, in the shallows
left by his broken waves of anger and hate, he was
relaxed, exposed. His strained will, recalcitrant and
seeking respite, beckoned to the sensory pleasure of
surrender to the priest's spiritual advances. He lay
open to the indulgence of this so complete change
of stroke and play upon his consciousness.

Father Ciollett stood away from the boy, looking
down at him with his live black eyes. Cassock and

44

CONFUSIONS 45

tonsure gave new values of force to his powerful
buUd, to his swart breadth of face. After awhile he
went to Alee, he put his hand on his shoulder.

''You feel this a great deal. You must use it
My dear Alec, don't let it warp you, don't let it
tarnish you. You're at a dangerous age. You must
master this, make it an instrument."

"My stepmother is absolutely in the right I" Alec's
former emotions flickered suddenly.

''Our Lord would not say that."

Father Gollett sat by the boy's side, and drew his
chair to him. One of the things Alec had first liked
him for was that he did not say ' ' Our Lerd, ' ' like most
other clergymen.

"But it is true," Gollett went on, "that He would
not judge as the world judges. He would not speak
the world's language nor think the world's thoughts."
Alec half -closed his eyes, luxuriously responsive to the
familiar measured rhythm of the priest's voice. It
was a richly charged voice, a voice of deep quiet
flow. "But the world's errors drive us to errors.
There is the danger for you now. "What has hap-
pened should show you where the real diviiion in
life lies — ^the division between the life spiritual and
the life material. I hope it will show you that.
Your stepmother was caught and tangled, poor lady,
in one worldly net : she has broken from that, but for
whatt The world will tangle her soul no less, now."
Do you say she has done wrong, thenf "
^Yes, in a sense. Because she has done a vain
thing, a thing that can leave no posterity for her soul.

46 BRUTE GODS

Waste and dispersion in effort, that is evil. That is
what evil means."

'^That's true, Father— I've felt that—" He
looked up, the priest's eyes subdued him.

''You have felt it, my dear son, because you are
ordained to the spiritual life." Father Collett's tone
was possessingly earnest. ' ' Because you are of us. It
is a very right and a very profound instinct that urges
you against condemnation of your stepmother. That
condemnation would be waste of the energy that is
given you for reaching up, for reaehing on — "

''Of course I don't condemn her! I condemn
him!"

"The man! This Mr.-"

"No, my father. I hate him." Alec was no longer
lapped and lulled.

"Ah, yes." Father CoUett paused. "I see. But
condemning him will not help you, it will frustrate
you. 'Judge not that ye be not — ' "

"But I want to be judged ! I want every one to be,
and then we'd have it all cleared up! I want the
Day of Judgment — " The boy was stirred to an un-
expected resistance. "And Christ condemned," he
added.

"We are not Ghrists. Christ knew that the only
way to achieve the only end — ^that is, the goal of com-
plete spiritual dedication — ^is to take all the currents
of our energy and feeling — hatred and ambition and
lust and love — and turn them to that one great cur-
rent of the true life. How can your hatred of your
father minister to you — f "

CONFUSIONS 4n

'^I don't want it to minister to me. You don't
know. You can't know how he's been — ^well, how he's
been hurting us all, all these years, trjring to make
everybody look ridiculous and feel wretched. He's
a bad man — bad — ^and he ought to be made to pay
— he ought to be stopped 1 Do you mean to say y(m
would go on just putting up with itf " Alec demanded
passionately.

' ^ If he only makes people wretched and ridiculous,
that is nothing. If he can make them feel vindictive
and destructive, that is a great deal. But he can't
do that — ^nobody can do that. The responsibility for
these feelings of yours lies with yourself, with no one
else. The only way, dear Alec, that you can fight
against evil is by not admitting evil past the gates
of your own spirit. There is no way in which the
world can know good except the way of individual
spiritual effort. Each must seek the Kingdom of
God for himself, must seek the salvation of his own
soul. Then all else shaU be added to him, and, at
the last, to his brethren. What do you think you
can do by hatred of your father, by rebellion against
him, by 'punishing' himt Whatever evil there may
be in him, you cannot conquer that: the conquest
of that can only come from within — ^your hostility
cannot help his sotd — "

''Oh, I hadn't any idea of helping his soull" Alec
breathed hard.

"If he deserves punishment, God will punish him,
in himself."

48 BRUTE GODS

*^I don't want God's way of punishing, I want
mine!"

*'WeU, then!''

The priest stood up. He was a little flushed, his
black eyes were restless. Alec's determination
troubled him, and he could not decide how best to
meet it. Leaning on the mantelpiece, he became con-
scious of his own physical bulk, conscious of the fuU
and beating flow of his blood. His decision hurried
to an arresting and turning of the boy by an exposure
of himself, by personal humiliation, by the intimacy,
by the thrill that would come of this.

*'You know my mother was a Creole," he said.
''And I've heard what they call me here. They call
me 'the black bullock.' "

"Oh, they're stupid people, everything they say or
think is wrong!"

Father Collett's colour deepened with pleasure at
the boy's championship. "I know you think kindly
of me. Alec. Why is that — ^why do yout" He was
even faltering, and the wistfulness of his look was
strange in its contrast with him.

"Oh, it's because you take me away from every-
thing! That's what it is, it's something like dreams,
the sort of dreams one likes, you know. I'm not in
the same sort of time when I'm with you — It's all
different—"

"You mean that I touch the past for yout" Col-
lett was eager and pleased.

"Yes. I don't know — ^I can't talk about it, but I
do feel it. — ^I dreamt I was in some woods with you.

CONFUSIONS 49

and was living with you, only you weren't a priest —
and we wore things that you see in old pictures —
green — sort of mediaeval dress. I had a different
name — ^Dexter Foothood— extraordinary sort of name.
When I woke up, I wrote it down, or I should have
forgotten it. There was a church, and we went in.
They were burying somebody under the stone floor:
everything was Sarum use — and, it was absurd, but
I was the person they were burying, in a way. You
know how mixed up things are in dreamst"

**Yes. Yesf The priest was listening with in-
tent pleasure.

''Oh, that's all." Alec shut up, embarrassed.

"They were burying you." The fire burnt slow in
the man's eyes, and his voice had the grave measure
of a ritual. ''And yet you lived: and you lived the
more. That is what Qod means by you, and by me.
Alec! do you think that I haven't died — ^and been
buried — ^lost my life to save itt That is the one thing
needful, that we, after the Pattern of our Saviour,
should die that we may rise again. Life everlasting
can be won only by the willing and conscious re-
nunciation of the life of the flesh. It is hard, this
renunciation, but how much harder it was for me than
for you!"

He sat down again by Alec, and the veins of the
boy's senses grew slowly charged by him. Again
Alec was beckoned to an easing surrender, a surrender
of subtle thrill and delicate allure. His spent emo-
tion and his physical hunger, in sweet intrigue, ex-
posed him. He felt a little faint, and that f aintness

60 BRUTE GODS

indulged him luxarionsly. The strong-bodied priest
could not know this. Alec was conscious of the
privacy of his f eeling, he was thus farther indulged.
The priest was a vice to him.

'^Tou don't know, dear boy, with what gross beasts
I had to fight. You never can know, because Otod
has given you a nature of far greater refinement than
mine. But I did overcome — God forbid that I should
glory — " He made the sign of the cross. "It is
in Christ that I glory when I tell you of this. You
are nineteen now. When I was nineteen I was
capable of any sin, of any degradation. I was guiUy
of sin, I was degraded. And now, even though I have
conquered in Christ — ^the mark of the dead beast is
in my face, and will be till I die. Sometimes, Alec,
I look horrible — horrible — "

The boy pleasurably trembled. ** You never would,
to me," he said, **never — "

"Ah, Alec! Your friendship is my very great re-
ward. These temporary rewards are allowed us
weaker ones : they are an earnest, a pledge to comfort
faith — a symbol. I could never have been your friend
if I had not beaten down the evil in me. I am forty-
three years old. What should I have been like, now,
after twenty-six years, if that evil had beaten me
downt You would have shrunk from me — Alee — "

' ' I can 't imagine you any different. Father. ' ' Alec
enjoyed the slight caress that he gave to his tone.

"Ah, I c(jm. You don't know, you can't know.
But the enemies of your soul may be more dangerous
to you than nune were, more subtle, because they are

CONFUSIONS 61

less bmtish. Spiritaal pride is often harder to over-
come than carnal Inst. Yon are not carnal. Alec,
bnt yon have flames that might consume yon. Ton
have fierce energies, hostile energies, energies that
wonld destroy yon in seeking to destroy others. Yon
conld be prond enongh to dare to nsnrp the Judg-
ment Seat of God!" Alec looked away, rather em-
barrassed, bnt tremendously flattered. ''These ene-
mies of your spirit have covered-np faces, mine
showed theirs dear, unmasked. That is why I warn
you now, because you have craft against you ; I only
had force that could be met with force. — Oh, my dear
boy, this is the truth, the truth that Christ came for.
We must conquer, we must sacrifice everything that
stands between us and our fulfilment — cM passions
that are of this world. Pride and hatred must be
set underfoot no less than lust — ^and so must all
worldly action, all desires that bind the soul to the
world's wheels. This is Christ's teaching, and the
proof of its eternal truth is that no human being
can follow it utterly, and that not one in a million can
foUow it at aUl''

The ^ priest was speaking more rapidly, more
strongly. He clasped his hands and looked before
him, sitting erect.

''Christ commands all our forces. The force that
would make a man a great leader in the world, a
great captain, a great statesman, a great poet or
painter or musician — ^whatever is the force-in-chief
of a man's spirit, that must be taken and turned and
used wholly to bear the soul on toward its consum-

52 BRUTE GODS

mationi These men of action — ^men of worldly note
— ^men of great careers — ^what shall it profit themt
What of the soul that is theirs and God'st To abide
in the sphere of one's own soul." He whispered in
a passion of reverence. ''It is a hard saying, but it
is Christ's: 'How hardly shall they that have
riches — t' He means riches of all kinds, not wealth
in money only — all qualities and energies that are of
worldly use. Martha's humble household helpful-
ness—even that — stayed the freedom of her spiritual
movement. It is not only the money-changers who
defile the Temple—"

"But — ^I couldn't give myself up like that I I
never could."

"It would be realizing the only living self that you
have. Tou can do it, Alec. You could be a priest
— ^a true priest. I am utterly sure of it — ^if you
will—"

"You want me to leave all this — ^this wrong that
my father has donef" Alec spoke under the sharp
tremor of revived feeling. "You want me to leave
all that^ and all those other horrible disgusting things !
People aren't right in what they do and say about
what they call 'inmiorality,' they don't understand.
I must try — ^I must say what I think. It's my father
who's wicked and evil, not my stepmother. "Why
should she have kept on with him, how would that
have helped her, spiritually or anyhow elset It
would have been just the opposite. I can't see how
it can be right just to clear out and think of what
you can do for your soull"

CONFUSIONS 68

^'It is right: growth of one soul leads on the growth
of others. You would only poison yourself by this
rebellion and revenge and hate, and you would cure
nothing, help no one. It is perfectly true that the
world condemns sins of the flesh in utter blindness.
Reject the world's morality — ^yes: but your rejection
must strengthen your acceptance of the morality of
Christ. Why is carnal indulgence wrong f Not be-
eause of any evil material or physical effects it may
have — often no such effects come from it. But if
th^ invariably came — ^if family life or the social
qnstem — ^the property idea — ^were invariably hurt by
what is called unlawful lust, or if the body's health
were invariably hurt — all this would be a matter of
no moment. Christ cared nothing for bodily health,
He cared less for family life and the human order-
ings of His day ; He was even against them, He knew
and denounced their obstructiveness. No. Carnal in-
dulgence is wrong and Christ rejected it because it
draws off to the lower life, the temporary life, all the
fervour, the force, and the quickening that Ood wills
for the higher life, the life eternal. It is a misap-
plication of what would lead you to Ood. This is why
the greatest sinners are so near akin to the greatest
saints. Between them there is only the difference of
choice of direction — Saint Augustine — ^the Magda-
lene — "

''But then — " Alec's gaze was fixed, he hesitated
and stammered, while the priest noticed the paUor
that heightened his dark eyes. ''Then how about

54 BRUTE GODS

marriage f How is there any difference t I mean in
that way — ^for — "

He faltered and closed his eyes against the vertigo
that swayed him ; there was motion of blackness. . . .
Father Collett took both his handa ''Alec! You're
faint — ^my boy — ^I should have seen/' He got up
and went hurriedly over to the bell.

''Oh, it's all right. I didn't have breakfast. It's
nothing — stupid of me."

Alec found himself pleasurably engaged with this
unaccustomed physical faintness, he allied himself
with it, he enjoyed being put, in this vagueness, at
the mercy of what might come. It gave him a new
importance. "This is why people fast," he thought,
and he recalled a contemptuous observation of his
father's about religious visionaries: "If you eat too
much, you dream by night; if you eat too little, you
dream by day."

"You must take some wine and food; you shall
have it at once."

Again the priest's fleshiness weighted him as he
looked down at the boy's face, with its delicacy of
youth, its lightly turned contours, all its fleeting im-
pressionable lines. The lips were now loosely set, the
mouth looked larger, it looked unguarded. The ' ' black
bullock's" eyes softened with tenderness and admira-
tion. This boy must not be wasted in the world —
coarsened by the world. This must be the hour of
his spiritual weaning — ^the very hour. The priest's
whole frame went throbbing to win this boy for re-
ligion, to win him for the true religious life that was

1
I

CONFUSIONS 66

00 rare now, the life that Ood, in His wisdom, had
allowed those who called themselves Christians almost
to forget. Ah, if he could win Alee, how his very
soul would go out to Christ, in blessed fulfilment.
^'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace
— ^for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation." He
trembled with his spiritual passion, he drew force and
shaking ecstasy for this passion from his bodily
streu^. ''My beloved son," he thought, looking at
the boy — and the phrase smote him with sweet
violence out of its association with Christ. It was
frightening and wonderful to think it of Alec, with
the Crucifix in view. Ah, he would take him by the
hand, away from the secular strife, from vain dis-
cordance, from worldly evil, from the soilures of
women, and before the Eternal Altar might he not
greatly triumph with him under the ^Will of Gtod t
*'This is my beloved son — ^my beloved — in whom Thou
art well pleased. I have brought him — saved him I"
The spiritual egoist vibrated with his essential thrill.

CHAPTEB IV

FATHER COLLETT chose for Alec what he
judged to be the most fortifying of the few
wines he had — a Nnits of matured virtue. The
boy sipped from the green bowl of the glass ; with the
long spirally twisted stem slim to his fingers, he re-
sponded to the instant working of the wine upon his
blood. In his cheeks he felt a luxurious and gradual
flicker, there was a light wavy motion of colour in
his brain: the refreshment in languor was exquisite.

He took luncheon with the priest, and it seemed
that no food had ever tasted more delicious than the
anchovies and the crisp fried sole of that meal. The
Nuits was by the side of his plate, and he filled a
second glass, happily surprised by the variation of
the wine's flavour to harmony with the taste of the
fish. His father was out of his mind.

''This must be a fine claret.'' He wanted the
prestige of a connoisseur.

* ' Comparatively, perhaps. ' ' Father Gollett did not
correct the boy's mistake. He looked at him, noting
his flush. ''It wouldn't be wise, though — forgive me,
Alec, but after you have been feeling faint — ^I
shouldn't take mare than two glasses." He poured
his own wine — a white Bordeaux — from its glass, and
filled up the tumbler with sodsrwater.

"Some people think it's wrong to drink at all,"

CONFUSIONS 57

said Alee nraflingly. "There are so many different
things that people think wrong. They can't all be
right — ^I mean about all these things. How is one to
knowt*'

'^Onr Lord knew what was good and what was eviL
We have His goidance. He tamed water into wine,
and wine into His own blood. If wine were evil, He
would not have chosen it to express the most
tremendous mystery of His Faith. Surely that is
dear — "

''It doesn't seem clear to all these Baptists and
Methodists and Wesleyans — "

''My dear boy, their stupid virulence against wine
is only one of their many stupid and unpleasant
heresies. Wine ' is eschewed by heretics and Ma-
hometans. They hardly concern us." The priest
spoke lightly, almost humorously, as he poured a little
more Bordeaux into his glass. "Harry — " he ad-
dressed his boy servant, who came in at that moment,
"tell Eugene to cook us something more. We were
late getting to lunch today," he added to Alec, en-
joying using an expression that suggested their living
together. He had seen that the fish hardly met the
boy's appetite half-way.

"It's much nicer not being waited on by maids,"
said Alec as the door closed. He felt remarkably
happy, remarkably well placed; and disposed to a
light haphazard ranging along the topics of easy
moments.

"The war constrained me to a parlourmaid — ^for one
week. She breathed down my neck, and the terrible

58 BRUTE GODS

memoiy of that made it impossible for me to write
my sermons. For some time I used to wait on my-
self — you remember t — and I did it very badly, but
happily it is a physical impossibilily to breathe down
one's own neck, and even if it were not, the torment
would be more tolerable, self-inflicted."

Alec filled his glass again with the Burgundy.
Father CoUett shook his head at him.

''A shocking scene," he remarked. "A warning,
an awful warning. Some one should really have it
done as an oleograph for decoration of the very veri-
est of Free Church homes. 'The proselytizing priest
— ^plying his victim with strong drink.' — ^'Weaken-
ing the Will : or the First Step to Rome. ' It would
look well on one of those Protestant Calendars.
'Reeling Bomeward' — ^perhaps that is neater. What
will happen to me, Alec, if Mr. Edgar Carrick — ^'the
Reverend Carrick,' I should say — should chance to
pass by when you totter wine-stained from my gatet
No, no, that must never be I " he cried, laying his hand
for an instant on the bottle.

"All right. I won't take any more."

Cutlets were brought, with green peas ; the boy ate
heartily. Father CoUett took only a few mouthfuls.
He kept his bantering tone, playing on with his
priestly-holiday raillery, his churchy frivolity that
showed such sad decay from the old-time mirth of re-
fectory and cloister. On Father Collett this
"humour" had been artificially imposed by his
associations. Alec accepted it uncritically as some-
thing that had to do with the priest — ^like his clothes ;

CONFUSIONS 69

not really important. He lazily remembered that
Mervyn didn 't like Father Collett 's jokes. * * When he
tries to be funny he simply sets my teeth on edge. I
think he's awful." Alec didn't mind. Dr. Besine's
jokes were what he conldn't stand, because he didn't
like Dr. Besine. He looked up at Father Collett and
liked very much the look of fondness for him in the
sloe-black eyes : and there was a gratifying confirma-
tion of the priest's friendly individuality in those
joined soft dense eyebrows, unlike the eyebrows of any
one else, for one was glossy-black, the other white as
milk, with the bridging hair of an intermediate grey.
This physical peculiarity seemed in some way co-
operative with affection.

Alec, in being fed, and fed so well — his father's
cook was no expert — grew sportive, he wanted to
tease, knowing the priest was fond of him ; he wanted
to make him do something that would be rather
agitating to him, wanted to stir conflict between the
promptings of good judgment and the promptings of
fondness. His instinct was like that of a woman
who counterbalances and overcomes the strength of
her man by her advantage in his being a good deal
more committed to his affection than she to hers.
Alec cast about for some ci^rice, some whim that
would trouble his companion a little, move him to a
troubled resistance, divide his will : it was the flattery
of this sport that he wanted, and then the flattery
of the priest's yielding to him, as he knew he would.
He must feel his power, this way.

''I wish I knew more about wine," he said sud-

60 BRUTE GODS

denly. ^'I mean what wines go with what food.
Yon take the stronger wines and liqneurs after eating,
don't yont*'

'^Tau don't. At least not when you're lunching
with me. ' ' Father Collett looked ' ' comically severe. ' '

^'Oh, I meant people generally— of course. I know
you never drink champagne with fish."

*'No, that would be cruelty to the fish. Unless
they're crustaceans; they resent it extremely. And
they spoil the champagne, in revenge."

''I remember my father laughing at the Markby-
Levins because they served champagne with turbot at
one of their dinners. He said it showed what kind of
people they were."

''Ah. In that case the turbot was avenged by im-
pugning the gentility of his tormentors."

''Brandy's the same kind of thing as champagne,
isn't itt Made of the same grapes, I meant"

"Unless we chance to be deceived, Alec."

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't drink brandy with
fish, would yout But you could afterwards, with
coflPeet"

"It would be possible. Without forfeiting all
claim to good breeding. ' ' The priest sipped from his
coffee cup, and then remarked : ' 'Will you take sugar
with yours t"

"I have sugar, thanks."

"And I won't offer you milk or cream, I won't
countenance that atrocious Anglo-Saxon barbarism.
So — ^well — " Father Collett was evidently a little
uneaj^.

CONFUSIONS 61

^'Ohy I sappose youVe given it all away to the sick
parishioners I "

"'It't What is 'it't— My dear boy, old Mrs.
Mndd must hare finished my last bottle— drained it
to the dr^s — every drop. Poor sonl, it made her so
happy, I hadn't the heart to stop her. ' That du hnlly
fare good in the innards, ' she said. You see I haven't
learnt to talk Suffolk yet, and I doubt if I ever shall I
I'm no linguist."

"Just a liqueur glass wouldn't hurt, would it,
Father T" Alec looked at him with eyes that faintly
smiled his confident mischief. "I didn't take another
glass of the wine," he added, with a rather touchy
plaintiveness.

"But, my dear innocent child, don't you know that
brandy is much stronger than Nuits — T"

"Yes, but the glass is ever so much smaller— ever
so much smaller."

The iteration of the phrase harmonized peculiarly
with the mood that the rich wine and plentiful meal
had brought him — ^a mood that lent the boy a sense
of command at leisure, a sense of being able to afford
to wait in this unusual blurred relaxation, to wait and
to win. If he could always have a little wine, he
thought^ he would never be embarrassed. Nothing
could make him blush now.

"Eeally, Alec—" Father Collett spoke after a
pause, and his tone was seriously touched. ' ' I would
rather you didn't have the brandy. Of course I'm
your host — ^I — "

"Oh, don't give it to me because you're my host I

62 BRUTE GODS

As if I thought of you as a hostt'^ He spoke vdth
shy affection.

The priest was movecL ''You're a young rogue,
I'm afraid," he murmured. His eyes moistened, and
Alec knew that he would give in. He waited, not
drinking his coffee. "But I don't want to give you
brandy, I don't think I ought to — ^now, do youf

"Well, of course if you think I'm a baby!"

Father CoUett rose, rueful. His emotions were
much more entangled than the boy could imagine. He
was resentful, a little, of the forcing of his will, but
it was much more important to him that he was under
temptation, that he was most self-reproachfully and
wrestlingly conscious of the secular, all too secular
pleasure that hedonists feel in giving attractive
young people more than enough to drink. As he went
to the sideboard he prayed for strength of resistance.

"Is that the brandyt"

"What do you mean, Alect"

" 'Cognac,' it says on the label."

"Well, cognac is brandy. The kind you take with
coffee."

"Yes, but — oh, I say. Father, couldn't you give me
some of the kind you gave Mervyn T You know, that
time he was caught in the storm and got wet through.
He said it was the finest stuff he 'd ever tasted. Just
one glass — one of those little glasses — ^you really might
— ^it wouldn't matter for once — ' ' He pleaded charm-
ingly, and Father CoUett was disturbingly open to the
charm.

"Youll make a Methodist of me, if you go on."

CONFUSIONS 68

He wavered, while Alee Inxnriated in his tyranny thai
was so f ayonred, so seeore.

*'It's really too bad of yon, Alec — and my niece
Gillian is dining with me tonight, too."

''Whatever has that got to do with itt" Alec
langhed.

**0h, you wouldn't ask if you knew her, you
wouldn't indeed. She's — ^well, she's an extremely
agitating person — "

''Is the real brandy in the sideboard, too, or do you
keep it in the cellar f"

"Here I It's here!" CoUett spoke sharply and
excitedly, with a quick shrug. "All right, I give
up." He turned in his chair and took out a dif-
ferent bottle. "My niece, you see — " Again he
hesitated, then filled a liqueur glass for Alec and
pushed it to him.

The boy took it, watching, not drinking at once.
"You never told me you had a niece t"

"Oh, Oillian is a very dark secret. Besides, it's
only quite lately that she's been about here at all
— and you were at school. ' '

"Why is she — agitatingt"

' ' Oh, she talks about things that don 't concern me,
the sort of things I have no opinion on. You see.
Alec, when I decided to become a priest I decided
at the same time to keep clear, altogether, of aU the
disputes of our times. Even religious disputes. I
am no controversialist." He spoke with a shade of
contempt. "We shouldn't be seduced by cleverness.
We should tAme itl"

64 BRUTE QODS

*'She's clever, then, is shet'*

' ' Oh, Oillian lives in disputation, she lives in noth-
ing else. We don't speak one another's language,
it's very trying. She's a disciple of freedom for her
sex — a preacher of it. Heaven knows what more
freedom they want. They got the vote, I'd hoped
that would keep them quiet — "

''Where is she stayingt" Alec had forgotten his
brandy.

*'Oh,letmese^— "

**Why surely you knowV^

**0h, yes, of course — ^just for the moment I — "
The priest was disconcerted. He wished he had not
mentioned Oillian in that moment when he was reach-
ing out for some topic to divert the boy. — ^StiU, Oillian
was not so very young, she was twenty-six. He must
represent her as a bluenstocking. ^ ' She 's staying with
the Burkes." He had to answer Alec's expectant
look. ''She knows them in London. Miss Burke is
coming to dinner with her, and I'm sure I hope shell
keep her in order. / shan't be able to — ^not after
your bad behaviour 1 ' '

Alec was reminded, and drank. ''The coffee's
cold," he said mischievously, "I won't waste it on
ihat." Unversed though he was, he could respond to
that crispness and sharpness of old brandy, to that
hint it gives of the dry curl-back and crackle of
champagne, while holding off in finer reserve from
the welcoming palate.

"What a ripping brandy 1 It's worth behaving
badly to get it. — ^Would your niece think my step-

CONFUSIONS 66

mother was right t Is her name the same as
yours t*'

"Gillian Collett would think anything right that
most other people think wrong. I often tell her
that she's wonderfolly simple — "

''I'd like to meet her! Here's her good healthi"

"My dear boy," — ^the priest rose hurriedly — ^"do
you know it's nearly three o'dockt"

"Is itt And I ought to have been home at twelve
for the guv 'nor 's pi. jaw — Oh, sorry!"

"Whyt" Father Collett opened the door. "Be-
cause your name for a moral talk throws ridicule on
part of the stock-in-trade of my profession t Weill"
He lauded and went on into the study.

The boy's sense of well-being flowered richly. It
seemed so good, all this: the well-appointed orderly
little house, the religious pictures of subdued colour,
the shelves with their peaceful weight of books, the
French windows opening out to the amiable warmth
that the afternoon had brought, the quiet smooth
green lawn that lay beyond — ^and all these pleasant
things were so wonderfully ripened and secured by
the good food, the good drink, by the lingering din-
ing-room impression of white linen and bright silver,
cut glass and flowers and china. . . .

"I want to talk to you, you know. Alec."

"Oh . . . yes." Alec took a cigarette from a
gold and blue box, stamped with the arms of Siena,
and the priest lighted it for him gravely. "What
kind of a girl is your niece, Father t You don't mind
my askingt"

66 BRUTE GODS

"Oh, haven't I given you an idea of hert" The
priest's face clouded.

*'Yes — ^but I mean — ^well, in herself, you know.
What exactly does she dot Does she do anythingT"

* ' My dear boy, she 's always doing everything ! She
edits a paper called The Woman* 8 Republic that
nothing would induce me to read. She used to work
in one of those Government Offices in London. She
writes articles, she speaks in j^ublic. She's been doing
that kind of thing for nearly ten years." His em-
phasis of the period of time was almost feminine.

"Oh. — ^But why don't you tell me what she's liket"
Alec insisted, partly out of curiosity, partly from a
wish to tease the priest's reluctance.

"I can't describe people. She's dark — she's about
the usual height, I suppose— she's— oh, really, Alec,
I don't know! She looks younger than she is, I
think."

"Well, she couldn't be so awfully old, being your
niece. ' '

"My elder brother's daughter. He married young.
— ^My dear boy, don't you want to talk to me about
yourself? Isn't there anything — t"

Alec shook his head and looked down. He felt
ashamed, because the conversation about Gillian
CoUett had suggested the girl Frippie to his mind,
in a way not congruous with the priest's spiritual
philosophy.

Father CoUett was silent. He took a cigarette,
turned it over and scrutinized it, as though it were
some rare insect or moth. "Alec," he said at last,

CONFUSIONS 67

^^ there was a boy came to me this morning, just be-
fore you were here. He had wronged a youn^ girl,
and he came to ask me if he should marry her. He
said he would if I told him to. She will have a
child very soon.*'

''Who is shet Do I know herf'

**0h, one of the village girls. I advised him —
strongly — ^not to marry her. Because I know that
the marriage would spoil his life. She's a light girl,
they're utterly unsuited; and it was all much more
her fault than his. I very much doubt if he's the
only one." He gave Alec a close sudden look.
"Surely I was right. Christ's bidding was to give
up wives for His sake, not to take them."

**Tes, imagine, how ridiculous, if he'd told Mary
Magdalene to take a husband!"

''Of all her sins that might have been the worst."

"Would you say that in a sermont" Alec was ex-
cited by the thought.

"It might have led her the furthest from God."

"Yes, but who is this girlt"

"Yes, I did right. I think I did right. But it
would have been altogether impossible for me to
have done differently. Altogether. — Oh, if I could
bring to you — ^if only I could, Alec — the feeling of
chastily in youth as a beautiful thing — ^in itself. If
I could give you the sense of the romance and fer-
vour — ^the fervent mysteries of abstinence, of re-
nunciation I" His black eyes flashed.

"Yes, but — Look here, then how about married
people t I was going to ask you. Marrying can't

68 BRUTE GODS

be right, can itt If a man's a rip, he can clear out
of it, so can a woman, just like Mary Magdalene.
They can get away and be spiritual — ^but a husband
can't, and a wife can't, unless she's got some other
man to take her away, like the Mater, and you say
that's just as bad. I say, Father, why don't you
preach all these things you teU me, say it in church,
I mean, next Sunday t That'd make them sit up!
Say what you said just now about Mary Magdalene
— won't yout"

''Oh, Alecl No. To say that in a sermon. It
would turn to poison in people's minds. It would
be a stumbling-block to the simple. It might destroy
what influence I haye." Father Collett's face
twitched. "I can't attack marriage." He spoke
feebly, unlike himself: Alec's suggestion had alarmed
him. ''And I'm unmarried. Oh, it would sound
absurd, they'd — "

"Well, you couldn't say it, could you, Father, if you
had a wife! And tell them all about how running
after girls and being a bad lot that way isn't nearly so
bad as the things these people do who think they're
quite 'pi.' Do tell them the real reason why going
with girls is wrong, and that the bigger rip a chap is
the better chance he has of being religious. That was
jolly fine, I thought; it was quite different to what
people get up and say in church. But the part about
marriage, that's the most important Oh, you mustl^^

"I shouldn't be understood. I should be accused
of morbidity and pruriency and all sorts of things.
You see, Alec — "

CONFUSIONS 69

''You will preach that sermon, Father t" Alec
was spurred by the excitement of a rising sense of
power: he could compel the priest, he felt ''Test
To please met"

Collett looked at him, and then looked away at
once. He trembled. His celibacy and religious de-
votion had impaired the natural virility of his affec-
tions, had made him subject to the kind of sexless
fever that young girls have for one another. ''Ill
preach it," he said.

Alec rose, delighted. "It 11 be one for the guv'-
nor!" he cried. He put his hand on the priest's.
Collett drew back. "Next Sunday T" the boy asked.

"Yes, next Sunday."

' ' It doesn 't make you — ^really unhappy t ' '

"You don't care if it does."

"Of course I card" Alec reacted from his tri-
umph, but was the more stubborn for his reaction.
"Ill get the guv'nor to go," he said. "Hell see—"

"You know, Alec, that boy asked me if he could
say how I had advised him. Of course I told him
yes. Well, it is all over the village and beyond by
now. They 11 all connect whatever I say on Sun-
day—"

"Yes, and they 11 connect it with my stepmother
too, won't they t"

"I suppose so."

"Coming from you, it will be splendid I It 11 show
theml"

"Well, I've given you my word."

"I must get back. I mustn't miss tea as well as

70 BRUTE GODS

lunch and the ^y'nor's pi.- jaw. I wonder what he
said. I know the kind of thing, all of it rot. It's
only because he's hit that he minds. Oood-bye, and
thanks awfully. '^

*'I was saying — ^you remember — ^that I couldn't
have acted differently in that matter. . . . That boy.
. . • Because I was once exactly in his case, and I did
not marry.''

''What, yaut^' Alec stopped short, he did not
look at the priest, it seemed improper to look at
him.

''I was younger than you at the time. I was just
seventeen." He forced himself to look at Alec.
''And the girl was not of another class. So naturally
pressure was brought on me. But I would not give
in — and I know I was right. I'm more sure of it
now than I was then. Jealousies and hates would
have taken the place of carnal love — a life-long bar-
rier for the soul — "

"Yes, it would be extraordinary for you to be
married."

"It would have changed my whole life — ^not for
good I I couldn't have told the boy to — "

Alec's lips were tight set. "It's unfair I" was his
mastering thought. Father CoUett wanted him to
resist his temptations, wanted him to keep away from
girls — and all the while he had had his time of that
when he was Alec's age — ^when he was two years
younger! The boy felt that he had been cheated
out of two years. He was jealous and resentful.
He was nineteen and he had never — What would it

CONFUSIONS 71

be like, then, this thing that every one, Father
Collett as well as the others, made out to be so
awfolly important t He made up his mind that he
would know, that he wouldn't be kept out any longer.
Father Collett had been only seventeen.

**Were you — '* He hesitated, and his tone was
strained, unnaturally dry. "Were you tremendously
in love with her and all thatt She must have been
awfully fond of you.'*

"Of course we were a very strong temptation to
one another." The priest ran his fingers in tight
pressure along his forehead. "Don't ask me about
it, Alec."

" He had that, ' ' Alec thought. ' ' He had all that. ' '
His imagination leaped bumingly. "Well, good-
bye," he said.

"Tell me." C!ollett was conscious of the warm
tremor of the boy's hand. "You will let me ask.
You are still — ^untouched, aren't yout You would
tell me if — You haven't, ever — t"

"No, I haven 'tl"

"Thank God I I had even thought — ^forgive me
for it — ^that you might be the father — "

"'The father'! What oft"

"My dear boy ! What a relief to me to be sure— to
know that you're still — "

"Yes, I ami" Alec amazed the other by the vivid
pique of his tone. * ' But — ' ' He hesitated, breathing
hard, then: "But I won't be, though!" He let the
priest have it, revenging his pique by the cruelty of
the stroke.

72 BRUTE GODS

Collett looked at him with aorrow so deep in his
eyes that Alec felt shamed and regretful, felt that
he had been a brute to say that. ''One feels differ-
ently at different times, you know," he stammered.

''Alec I Is it because'I told you, because you know
that I — t I shouldn't have told. I was wrong."
His mouth quivered.

"Oh, no, it wasn't thatl'' The true conjecture
touched Alec's pride.

"You know what great grief I should feel if you
stumbled because of me. You know the feeling I
have for you. Alec." He put out his hand, and Alec,
unconsciously, out of his impatience to be off, moved
from him. "Forgive me." GoUett's eyes looked
hurt ' 'My dear Alec—"

He left him, and went through into the little room
opening out from his study, a bare room where he
prayed and sometimes wrote his sermons. This ser-
mon must be written at once. He took a sheet of
paper and wrote out three texts slowly and carefully :

There is no man thai haih left house, or parents, or
brethren, or wife, or children, for the Kingdom of
Ood*s sake, who shaU not receive manifold more in this
present time, and in the world to come, life everUtst-
ing.

If any ma/n come to Me, and hate not his father,
and m4>ther, and wife and children and brethren and
sisters, yea, and his own Ufe also, he cannot be my
(lisciple.

CONFUSIONS 78

The publicans and the harlots go into the Kingdom
of Ood "before you.

''Hate Ids father." The priest knew that he had
done nothing to quell in Alec that other, that secular
and self-destructiye hate. He had indeed consented
to gratify it by this sermon. He had had to consent.
''If he had told me to speak of my sin — ^to confess
that from the pulpit — I think I would do that too,
if he told me.*' Collett rejoiced, fiercely and bitterly,
in his sense of that subordination, of that sacrifice
that he would be willing for. Then the strange
violent joy that he had was darkened and overpowered
by sense of guilt; guilt towards himself and guilt
towards the boy who could so move him. . . . The
fangs of doubt, as never before so strongly, assailed
him: a terrible vision unfolded of the world as it had
been since Christ. What if Christ 'e death had brought
only a strengthening of the bonds of the world's
folly, the world's brutality T What if the last horrid
wail of disillusion and disbelief, three thousand years
after the Crudfizion, should go up to an empty place T
Ah, how far more dreadful and final, that, than the
"My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken met"
Could that cry have been torn from Jesus by a
prophetic vision of the end of the human soul T The
priest tried to assure himself that the centuries since
the Crucifixion were only a moment in God's sight,
that our minds could not reason from them. . . .

He bent his head, failing. In Flanders these ter-
rors had not come to him. He realized that the hap-

74 BRUTE GODS

piest and serenest time of his life had been then, amid
bursting shells and bombs, amid mortal danger and
mortal pain. What weakness, what cowardice, he
thought, to stand in need of such help — outward, acci-
dentaL

He reverted to Alee. ''I cannot lead him to Life,
I am too fond of him. I am not stronger than my
affection for him. That makes me an imperfect in-
strument." Perhaps he might even be an instru-
ment of evil for the boy. Why had he spoken of
Gillian T Alec was interested now in Gillian, and
Gillian might — Gillian would do as she wished, and
she was clever. Attractive, in her way, and no one
could say that twenty-six was very old. Very often
boys — And the beginning of it would have been
that he, the priest, had named her and talked of her.
Grief and jealousy went through him, and in bitterer
flow because of Alec's defiant declaration at parting.
*'My sin will make his sin," he thought. *'God for-
bids me to win him to grace: He turns me to his
hurt for my punishment." *'The Life will lose him:
I shall lose him." — '*Even here Thy hand shall lead
me, and Thy right hand shall hold me," he murmured,
in an agonized effort of faith.

CHAPTER V

ALEC left the priest's house with an eager
swing. He felt free. "Just fancy being
always in black clothes/' he thought, "and
doing the same sort of things all your life. I supi>08e
it's all right for him, though." What an extraor-
dinary thing that the old chap should have gone on the
racket like that. He hadn't been afraid of Alec's
splitting on him about it ; that was decent of him.

A little way along the road he passed a young
woman who had been in service with the Glaives just
before her recent marriage. "Good artemoon, Mr.
Alec," she said, and smiled, with a look of that under-
standing, rather secretive admiration that young mar-
ried women have for an attractive man. She noticed
how well Alec's Panama hat suited him, with its
heightening of the agreeable freshness of his com-
plexion.

"Oh, Elsie, how are yout" The boy was conscious
of her look, conscious of it as more guarded and yet
bolder than the look he would have had from a maid.
"Where are you goingt"

He wanted to talk to her, he felt the piquancy of
her being so lately married. She was different, a
little; he did not know how. — ^'^Oh, yes, I see — "
He had not heard her answer, it suddenly embarrassed
him, being with her, the two of them together in the

76 BRUTE GODS

open road. He smiled rather awkwardly, raised his
hand and passed on, sorry to leave her.

"But I want Frippie," he thought. ''She's the
girl for me ! " He must find her now. Where would *
she bet Somewhere near her cottage, probably — on
his way home. Suppose she wasn 't about f He might
turn back and catch up with Elsie: he didn't like
doing that, but still — After all, Elsie knew about
him and Frippie, he'd been afraid she might say some^
thing, but she hadn't, she was a good sort of girl —
not one of the spiteful sort who sneaked and made
trouble. He turned and caught up with her.

''I say — ^you might tell me, Elsie. Is Frippie
Clark up at the cottage, do you knowT"

"I don't know narthin' about her, nor don't wanil''

* ' Why — ^what do you mean, Elsie f ' ' Alec was sur-
prised by the stubborn vindictiveness of the girl's
tone.

''Oh, narthin'." Elsie modified her expression
more becomingly, recovering her sense of the boy's
presence. "She's gaddin' round somewhere. What
her pore father don't hev to put up with from her!"

' ' She wouldn't be at the cottage, then f ' '

"Yu don' want narthin' to du with her, Mr.
Alec—"

"Oh, I only happened to want to see her for a mo-
ment — "

"She's gone ridin' that there owd bisticle what
young Tom Stevens give her. She's gone to Malstowe
— ^makin' a sight of herself I"

"I don't see why it's making a sight of herself

CONFUSIONS 77

to ride a bicycle into Malstowe." Alec continued to
be puzzled by Elsie's antagonism.

The young woman looked up at him with a know-
ing furtiveness. He had the impression that her
stubbornness and resentment covered something pleas-
ing to her, something protective. '*Well, I'd best be
gettin' along, Mr. Alec," she said, as he stood silent,
without giving her any sort of sex-glance.

Alec walked away, intent on cutting across the road
to Malstowe at the next turning. What a good thing
he had met Elsie! Elsie's disparagement and re-
luctance aided the priest's wine in spurring his wish
for Prippie. Qirls were funny about girls.— The
road was dusty, he would have liked a lemon-squash.
He wondered if he would have been more or less
thirsty if he had had more to drink. He hadn't
had enough: he could have wished more courage yet
for the meeting with Prippie. Why was it that, for
all her release of him from his natural shyness, he
never had been able to come really freely to hert
Why, after leaving her, had he always felt a foolt
It hadn't been her fault, it had been his : some damned
thing or other, inside him, had always kept him back.
When he was alone, he thought of all sorts of things
he could have done, and would do: yet when he was
with her, it seemed quite different, he was held off.
Silly fool he was — ^rotten silly fool — ^there was no
reason — other chaps would have had a really good
time. Not having seen her for so long would make
it harder now, of course. If only he could feel as he'd
felt just after lunch! Everything seemed so ea^

78 BRUTE GODS

then. By the time he met Frippie*-if he did meet her
— ^he supposed he'd be just the same as ever. But he
wouldn't I He'd force himself against that, now.
And his father wanted him to be careful; well, he'd
show him, he'd score off him in that way too. If he
got to know, all the better.

His father was somehow all twisted up with this,
he always had been. There were vivid memories
from years ago: one memory in particular — ^the first
•—of a little girl called Kathleen who had torn her
dress in sliding down the bannisters. She would have
fallen and hurt herself, only Alec had caught her;
and when she was in his arms, laughing and flushed,
and with her torn dress, he wanted to keep her there.
He gave her a kiss, not meaning to. Then his father
came, he looked in a funny way, said angrily:
"Kathleen, how did your dress get tomt" and told
Alec to go to his room, where he kept him shut
up as a punishment. "We must nip this kind of
thing in the bud," he had said. The boy had asked
him: "Why do you shut me up in the room because
Kathleen tore her dress f" The garment became
hugely important and mysterious, he had thought
about it perpetually. "I must punish you for your
sake, because I love you," his father had told him, and
Alec had been in utter amazement at the lie.

After that, the enmity of his father to him in this
special relation became established. Once, driven by
the baffling growth in strength, by the more and more
disturbing determination and constancy of those on-
comings so inexplicable and uninvited — once he had

CONFUSIONS 79

begnn to tell his father, to ask him: but the pounc-
ing look in that tawny eye had put him forthwith
into an unshakeable silent sullenness, a sullenness and
silence which had held well. He was the more puz-
zled and troubled, the more resentful of his father.
"Was it wrong — and whyt And how unfair if it
was I'' For the first time in his life he was pathetic.
Then there had been a time — ^what a little brute
he must have been, he reflected — ^when he used to
beat trees and things with sticks, and imagine they
were people. — ^It was all the same sort of thing as
before, only in a difi^erent way, rather. That Amer-
ican book with descriptions of negroes and negresses
being whipped — ^he had enjoyed those descriptions.
Everything else used to seem dull. . . . Then the
Fox's Book of Martyrs, in his father's study: how
exciting that had been, much more exciting than the
books he was forbidden to read. He had told Father
Gollett, thinking that it must mean some dreadful
unmatched wickedness in him ; he had been apprehen-
sive and thrilled. But the priest had said that it
was all perfectly natural and perfectly usual, but that
things that were natural and usual were often wrong ;
if he thought of making people happy instead of mak-
ing them suffer, he would enjoy it just as much
and be a better boy. Alec was half convinced then
that he was like every one else, but he could not quite
bring himself to believe that every one could feel so
passionately wicked. Still, Father CoUett had dulled
the edges of his indulgence: even the penance for
sin that he had set himself — getting out of his warm

80 BRUTE GODS

bed in the cold and kneeling at the other end of the
room in his nightgown while he said the Creed slowly
—even this seemed to have less distinguished a point.
A little later the powers of life rose up against him
more formidably caparisoned — strong thrusting
beasts, with colours of bright-gold frenzy and dull-
red shame. He had said nothing then to Father
Collett — and, by Jove, he was glad of that now.
Now, of course, he understood, just as most people
did. Mervyn wasn't worried, why should he bet
It didn't really matter much, most chaps knew that:
but all the same it didn't seem fair that he should
have had to have that sort of a time of it when he
was such a kid. If that was Nature she was an old —
She was as bad as his father, because his father had
been unfair and cruel to him in the same kind of
way when he was too young to look out for himsdf .
.He would tackle this thing and his father — ^he'd
tackle them both in the same way, he'd get even by
defying and revenging and not caring a damn. Yes,
he'd make the very most of his hating his father,
and the very most of these wishes that his father had
baulked and messed up for him. — The boy's decision
was in no small degree self -protective, self -preserva-
tive: he needed emotions and objectives to stiffen
his green growth, and he made passionately his own
those that chance brought to his grasp.

There was only one road by which Frippie could
come back on her bicycle from Malstowe. Alec, reach-
ing it, looked eagerly along in both directions. Of
course he would miss her! If you were too keen on

CONFUSIONS 81

anything you never got it; you got the best things
when you were quit ecasual abou tthem, not execting
particularly, not minding much. . . . What should
he say to her when they met, how should he begin t
Would she get oflF her bicycle T At onceT Perhaps
she wouldn't quite like— it wouldn't look well. Still,
she would manage that all right. Girls always man-
aged to do things without doing them, in a sort of
way. Would she get oflf her bicycle, thought The
bicycle was a nuisance ; it would have to be left some-
where—or wheeled along the lane and put against the
hedge. That would be better. He could leave all
that to her, what was the good of fussing T Alec
was vexed by his agitation, it was ridiculous that his
heart should be beating so fast. He was by the lane
he had had in mind: if she would only come now I
It would be awkward meeting her further down the
road, with nowhere to go. Why not stay where he
was, thenT He sat on the stile and lighted a cigar-
ette. No one seemed to be about. This waiting was
the devil, it would make it much harder when she did
come — ^if she did. When they had last met, she had
kept him waiting. Mervyn said the reason girls did
that was that it was a sort of score off you, it gave
them an advantage and bucked them up. Alec
wished again that it hadn't been so long since he had
seen Frippie. The last time was when he had got up
at half-past five, and walked to the East Fields where
there were trees : he had met her there. Mervyn had
told him he was a fool, because the girl would know
he must be awfully keen on her to get up and go out

82 BRUTE GODS

at that idiotic hour ; and if a girl knew you were too
keen on her she never liked you so much, and she was
never such good sport. ' ' But of course with a girl like
her I don't suppose it matters. I wouldn't walk
across the road for her!" Well, he didn't care what
Mervyn thought Of course Mervyn had to be dif-
ferent after getting engaged and it would be worse
when he was married.

If they could have met in Blackberry Lane, nearer
Malstowe, that would have been ever so much better.
Blackberry Lane had a deep poppy-field on the other
side of one of its hedges. The Vicar of Malstowe had
once preached a whole sermon about Blackberry Lane.
It was odd^ how much interested every one seemed to
be in these things. Except Wilfred Vail: he only
laughed, and then began talking of something else.
Alec thought for a moment of sending Frippie to the
deuce and going to see Wilfred instead. Then he and
Wilfred would have one of their drifting afternoons
of easy talk and easy companionship. Perhaps he'd
find him writing one of his articles for a Motor paper,
and they would smoke Russian cigarettes and drink
tea with a spoonful or two of whiskey in it. Wil-
fred's mother, at tea, would tell stories of Edward
FitzGerald and his brother. Would whiskey go well
after brandy T — ^No two i)eople could be more utterly
different that Wilfred Vail and Father Collett. Wil-
fred had said once that if he were dying, the smeU
of petrol would revive him. Yes, they would potter
about the old stable, now used as a garage; Wilfred
would tinker with his ''baby'' car, or with the other,

CONFUSIONS 88

the large one: or he would put it off till tomorrow.
There was very rarely anything in Wilfred's life that
he could not put off till tomorrow. Alec, with his
urgent and uncertain energy, dimly envied his friend.

He got off the stile. He would go to Wilfred's.
He realized the much more level and peaceful time
he would have there, with none of this wondering
what he would do and say, none of this looming
awkwardness and embarrassment and disappointment.
He reacted violently for a moment under the stress
of his waiting. It wasn't worth itl He wanted his
friend, wanted to see him in those dirty grease-
stained overalls of his. Wilfred's image was clear:
the large bluish eyes, proclaiming their physical weak-
ness and their benevolent intelligence through the
round large glasses of those uncompromisingly service-
able steel-rimmed spectacles to which he had lately
taken: the bearded saUow narrow face, the fleshy
nose with its wide nostrils, the fleshy but dose-drawn
and positively-willed mouth. . . . Wilfred in his
garage, working and gradually beginning to sweat —
growing rather paler. Funny of him to wear a beard
when he was only about twenty-flve. Just because
it had grown when he had scarlet fever. He said it
was less trouble to keep it on. Funny chap he was,
in some ways. Mervyn thought him an ass, but he
wasn't, reaUy, at alL Mervyn didn't know. . . .
Alec looked up the lane. Not such a good lane as
the one nearer Malstowe, no, not nearly such a good
lane as the lane of the sermon. He pondered.

Why couldn't he see Frippie's face in his mind as

84 BRUTE GODS

dearly as Wilfred's t It was absard, but now he came
to think of it, he could hardly teU what she looked
like. What was the colour of her eyest He knew
how she would make him feel, though: if he kissed
her, he seemed in some queer way to lose her. She
came too close, then; everything came too close, it
was tantalizing to think how it was. He never could
realize kissing her or having her in his arms, couldn't
believe in it, somehow, it wasn't at all like his idea of
it when he wasn't with her. There was so much more
in what he imagined, his mind was so much freer then.
— ^How irritating all this was ! But only because he
had been a silly fool. He wouldn't be like that any
more, he promised himself, uncertainly.

After all, Parham Lodge was too far, he couldn't
get there by tea, he'd arrive unexpectedly. The
Vails didn't like people '* dropping in," not even their
intimate friends. — ^He'd be late for tea at home, now.
How flat it would be if he went back home. He
might start walking home by the Malstowe road, away
from Malstowe: a roundabout way, but he'd be going
home then, and Frippie might overtake him.

He started off, ruffled and thwarted and divided,
much annoyed with himself for the state he was in.
Beaching a point where the road branched, he hesi-
tated. Should he leave the road and cut across by
the shorter way t He saw a girl walking slowly — ^no
sign of a bicycle anjrwhere. Who was the girlt
Why, it was Frippie, of course it was : on foot, why
was she on foot, when he had been thinking of her on
a bicycle all this time t Alec was bewildered by this

CONFUSIONS 85

adjustment so suddenly forced on him. He hurried
his pace. Further on, the road broadened away from
the protective hedges, from the screened lane, he must
reach her before she got too far.

He ealled to her breathlessly when he was near
enough, and the girl stopped and turned, showing
him a face that was quite unsurprised.

''What's hapi>enedt" he said.

''What do you mean, what's happened t" She
looked defensive and resentful.

"I thought you'd be on a bicycle."

"Oh, I got sick of the old thing. I left it behind
at Stevens's."

She spoke with hardly more than a trace of the
Suffolk accent Vail had told Alec that the "gay
ones" among the country girls were always the first to
lose their provincialisms. Besides, Frippie had been
in service in Colchester when she was two or three
years younger.

"How did you know I went in on a bicydet"
she asked suspiciously.

She didn't seem glad to see him, Alec reflected:
why did she waste time over a question like that, as
if it mattered how he knewt He stood looking at
her, resolved that he would remember her face this
time. Her eyes were certainly more green than any-
thing else — a sort of pale green: they used to be
friendly, though, they used to have a sort of yielding
look that he couldn't describe and couldn't properly
remember. She was always paler than the other
girls. Her mouth —

86 BRUTE GODS

''Oh, what are you gapin' at me for, like thatt
What's wrong with met" she asked, with the same
defiant suspicion.

''Come let's sit down for a bit." Alec looked
away from her jerkily. "I haven't seen you for a
— ^for a — ^for ever such a long time."

"We can't go sittin' here."

"Why not, why can't wet" Alec caught himself
up. He remembered that he had decided not to be
too eager.

"There's the men over in that field." She looked
down, and half smiled : for a moment she dropped her
pettish air, and seemed promisingly sly.

Alec's heart beat. "They can't see us if we sit
down," he said. "Or why don't we go through into
the lanet"

"Oh, I don't want." She raised her irregular
light eyebrows, and gave him a familiar quick half-
puzzled glance. "We'll be seen, standin' an' talkin'
like this — ^an' I don't want no bein' silly an' that,
not now I don't, what's the goodt I should think you
wouldn't neither, bein' as — "

"Don't let's stand, then.'*

He looked at her again, as she stood making un-
certain little semicircles with her toe in the loosening
earth. She was much more like herself now. Alec
recognized that look she had of being a temporary
and accidental occurrence — something that you could
not count on and that was always on the point of
slipping by. She had the same haphazard mouth,
the same random fair hair for that blunt gay face

CONFUSIONS 87

of hers. Not really pretty, perhaps — with such a
pale skin — ^but oh. Lord! he must touch her. He
thought of what Father CoUett had told him, he took
her hand and pulled her down with him on the grass
by the hedge.

''Don't you I Pullin' me about like that — shame-
fnll Spoilin' my dress. An' it's so hot!"

She struggled, pouting like an aggrieved child, vexed
by the boy's awkwardly directed impulse. His
being so awkward and untaught seemed to belittle
her. ''He's a fair baby I" she thought. Alec put
his arms under hers, he pressed her to him roughly
and tightly. She struggled more violently, in a
perturbed revulsion that was altogether new to him.
He let her go, he was startled and scared.

"What do you think you're doin' oft Out in the
road like this, you must be— I've to get back
home, I can't stay here, and you so foolish!" She
moved away, but did not get up.

"I didn't know — ^you didn't mind before," he
stammered.

"Don't you go touchin' me, I can't stand that
touchin', iouchin' — "

She drew further from him, with a jerk of her body.
Her face was in queer nervous puckers, and Aleo
noticed how dark she looked under her flickering eyes.

"What do you meanf " he said, growing angry with
her now that she looked less attractive. "You never
used, you know — ^you didn't — "

"Well, I don't want. I ain't feelin' well. I'm
goin' home." She sat still.

it

li

88 BRUTE GODS

^'Bat why are you like thisf What's the reaaonf "

"You fool!'' she cried sharply. ''SUly fool, youl"
She leaned forward, shaking, hiding her face. "I'm
goin' home."

All right, ' ' Alec replied coldly. ' * Go home then. ' '
I don't know what call you have to talk to me
that way ! After what she done up at yours ! You
don't want to talk that way, you don't ! " Her mouth
sagged, she turned her back to him, choking.

Alec, surprised but not ill pleased, wondered what
to do. He put his hand tentatively on her arm.

"I said no touchin'," she gulped. She took his
hand away, but kept hold of it, with her back still
turned. Alec was silent. He had instant pleasure
in those hot little fingers that ran with their nervous
animal life — fingers of such separately sensitive flesh
from his own that possessed them. There was so
much more in this than in those blundering kisses —
Would Father CoUett think this wrong f What was
it he had saidf That it was using up something that
was meant to go to making you more spiritual —
Alec tried, for piquancy, to recall the priest's argu-
ments.

"Who will you go with when I — Oh, I s'pose
you'll go with that there Miss Burke."

"When you whatt"

"Oh, don't you trouble about me. No one wants
to trouble about me." Her fingers twitched sharply.
"That Miss Burke likes you, you know she do."

"What, Doreen Burke! I don't believe it Why
do you think — "

CONFUSIONS 89

^^Oh, yon don't know anything!" She pulled her
hand away. ''She do, though, " ahe added witii con-
vktion.

''Well, I don't care if she doeal"

"No, you don't care about any one, I know you
don't!"

"Of course I care about yaii, Prippie, I — "

The remark sounded very stilted, it sounded silly.
"What a fool I am!" he thought. He sought her
hand, but she held it tightly clasped with her other
one on her lap.

"I want some one to care about me, proper carin',
not just makin' love and all that what's soon over
an' done with — only it ain't over, neither, not one
way, it ain't I " She had half -turned to him, but now
she turned away again.

* * Don 't cry. Why should you t You ' ve nothing to
cry about."

"Oh, that's all you know. That's just like you. I
wish I was a man," she declared viciously. "I'd
show them — ^all them girls, wouldn't If Sneaky
8ni£9n' little beasts. I know what Pd do, and I'd
do it proper! You don't know how, you don't! I
wish I was you. I'd get that Miss Burke and I'd
settle her, so she wouldn't go doin' no more of her
preachin' I Told me Jesus loved me. What call had
she, goin' sayin' things like thatt 'Wish I was you.
I'd give her Jesus!"

"Why was Miss Burke talking to yout I don't
see why she should interfere. It's no business of hers
even if you aren't one of the Sunday School sort — "

90 BRUTE GODS

"Oh, an' who told you I wasn'tt'* She tamed
and looked at him closely. "Was that why you
wouldn't take no notice of me when you was sittin' on
that stilet"

"Whatl you don't mean to say you — "

"Don't tell mel You must have seen. I went
right by you — ^you couldn't help—"

"I swear I didn't see you. It's the most extraor-
dinary thing, Prippie — " He was vehement. "I
can't think how it could have happened, but I swear
it did. I was there waiting for you, looking out
But I thought you'd be on a bicycle, that must have
been why. I was looking out for a bicycle, you see — ' '

"There's lots of things you'll miss, if that's the
way you go on I"

It was impossible not to believe him. Frippie
looked at him half-humorously, half -tenderly : he
was so much put about, and he had been there wait-
ing for her, silly kid! The girl of eighteen felt
very much older than he, felt as if she knew so much
more. "What's the good of boyst" she thought.
She kissed him and then escaped him with equal sud-
denness.

"Prippie! Why do you do like that t" He tried
to take her. "You keep on teasing, it's awful, it isn't
any fun for me, I can tell you it isn't!"

"Oh, an' you keep on askin' why — ^why — ^why! I
told you I. didn't like touchin'. It makes me feel all
-—oh, I don't know* I'm just as good as them, too,"
she went on — ^irrelevantly, so it seemed to Alec.

He stared moodily. That letting her go past him

CONFUSIONS W

on the road. How Mervyn woiild laugh, if he knew 1
Well. He wouldn't let anjtliing go by him again, not
anjfihing. Surely if he made up his mind —

**Do you care s'posin' they see us togethert" she
asked suddenly.

*'I thought you did. You said — ''

''I don't mind, not now. Oh, what's it matter t
You only live once, and if you're always thinkin',
thinkin', and lookin' up an' lookin' down, you might
as well be dead!" She put her arms round him.
"Would you mind if they saw us doin' like thatt"

Alec kissed her, but not so violently, not so much
losing himself or her as before, and he let her go
before she struggled.

"I can't." There was a baffling expectancy in her
eyes, and Alec formulated the feeling that he had
had an the while, that she looked older in some way.
"It's no use, it doesn't go right, not now. — ^I say, dear,
you're friends with Mr. Vail, couldn't you get him to
give you some of them nice grapes out of his glass
house, and you give 'em to me. You could, couldn't
yout"

She was eager, much in earnest, oddly tenacious.
Catching Alec's look of reluctance, she at once took his
hand.

"You could get them tomorrow, then we'd meet
next day — early — like we did before, in the East
Fields. I have been wantin ' a taste of them grapes ! ' '
Her voice curled longingly.

"Look here — ^111 buy you some, Frippie. Ill buy
them tomorrow — some just as good."

02 BRUTE GODS

*'No, they ain't! I want Mr. Vail's. I seen them
when I was to the Lodge with Mrs. Whitling.
They're lovely, lovely an' black, an' ever so big! I
don't want none out of a shop. I want them picked
straight out — ^I want ^ou to pick 'em for me, Alec
dear. I thought you was fond of me." She gave
his hand a feverish squeeze.

''All right. I will. Give us a kiss!"

He would realize her kisses now, he thought, he
would know how, he was ready : it had been too sud-
den before, he hadn't waited enough.

''You will, really and truly — "

Facing him, she put her two hands against his
chest, keeping him back. Her blunt face — ^her jolly
libertine dissembling face — ^again recaptured some-
thing of its gaiety, but in a strained uneasy excite-
ment that overlay her familiar look.

"Say you want 'em to take home. Say they're
for Mrs. Glaive — oh, I forgot ! Fancy me sayin' that !
— I 'm awful sorry about her, dear, but then she have
money, haven't she, she won't feel nothin' and she've
got some one to see to her. 'S rare hard for you an'
all, though, ain't itt"

"Oh, /don't mind!"

"But you 11 get them grapes!"

The great Glaive calamity did not divert Frippie
for more than a moment. Her pale skin, so unlike his
own, lightly and seducingly flushed, gave new stim-
ulus to the boy. He took her arms, with one hand of
his at the curve of the elbow. "You pramisef' she
urged.

CONFUSIONS 98

''Oh, of coarse I promise. Let's have a kiss —
properly.*'

"And yon wouldn't mind bein' seen with me, would
yout"

''Of course I wouldn't!"

She leaned a little to him, still keeping him back.
Then: "There's that Mr. Perry comin'!" she cried
low. With what seemed a single movement, capri-
cious, skilful, instant, she had slipped away through
the hedge.

CHAPTER VI

ULLOA, Glaive, where did you spring
fromt"
^'Hulloa/' ''Damn that ass Perry,"
thought Alec

''Been for a run or something f Pretty hot, isn't
itf Mr. Herbert Perry, the People's Party man,
advanced, lithe and hale, brown and young. He was
carrying a case of golf -clubs. "I say." Beaching
Alec, he stopped. "Do you know what's happened t"

"WeU, whatt"

Alec coloured furiously, connecting the question
with his stepmother's flight. His intense annoyance
at the man's untimely appearance lapsed for the
moment.

" Yetminster's trying to stop the men going over his
land to the Worksl"

"Oh, that right-of-way business." Alec's tone was
relieved and indifferent.

' ' You don 't realize — ^why, it 's madness. He doesn 't

Alec, as Perry went on talking, was vividly directed
to the various masculine symptoms of the intruder:
the facts that rudely projected were the swing of his
arms and legs, the roughness and thickness of his
clothes, the smell of his pipe-tobacco, the few close-
cropped inches of hair under his cap, the razored

94

CONFUSIONS -96

skin of his face, the look of his neck and chin, nothing
like Frippie's.

^'You don't mind if I talk to yon in confidence,
Glaive, do yont" Perry began to curb his agitation.
**We*re walking the same way, aren't we!'' He
dropped his voice and put a hand on Alec's arm, try-
ing to make the boy feel pleasorably important
' ' Between ourselves, the men won 't stand it. Th^ 've
gone by that path to their work for the last fifteen
years, the old Marquis always let them. They broke
the gate this morning." He paused, in the manner
of a public speaker. ''They'll break it again to-
night if they &id it up when they come back. Prob-
ably they're breaking it now. They won't walk the
three-quarters of a mile round twice a day. I know
them, Olaive. They won't do it."

''It was just beginning," ran Alec's thoughts.
"If only that fool hadn't come along, I could have —
I would have!"

"Th^ won't do it," Perry repeated.

"Well, it's no business of mine, is it!"

"Yes, it is. Your father's bound to be mixed up
in it. There's a whole lot that could be done in an
unofficial way; you can help. I'm at a disadvantage
as a public man. Anything I might say to Yet-
minster would put his back up at once. These Liberal
aristocrats! They're worse than the old-fashioned
Tories ! Lord Beauvais might have done this sort of
thing thirty years ago, he'd never do it now. He
and his kind know betters-know how far they can
go, and where they have to stop."

98 BRUTE GODS

''What a seUl" Alee tormentingly reflected.
"What a come-down.'* He had been so determined,
too. Then he had only jnst kissed her— without mak-
ing anything of it, really; he'd jnst held her hand.
As if he'd taken all that trouble to meet her, just to
hold her hand 1

''The political sense of the possible," Perry was
saying. "Compromise. Why, it's simply playing
straight into Joe Matcham's hands — violence — "

"Oh, yes, you dislike that man, don't yout"

"Not in the least. I dislike his principles — or I
ought to say I dislike his poisonous errors."

Perry gave an ea^ Club-room laugh. He shot out
a few strokes at Matcham's political heresies while
Alec continued to ponder on the unf ruitf ulness of his
meeting with Frippie. Why was it that there had
been so fleetingly little in itt Anything more had
seemed so utterly out of his power. Well, perhaps
even if Perry hadn't come — He tried to console
himself.

"But don't let's talk shop," the politician con-
tinued. "Now your father's a shrewd man, he can
get Yetminster to see what a rotten mistake he's
making. Probably ruin his chances for the Board of
Agriculture. . . ."

Perry elaborated this point, while Alec discussed
with himself the matter of his promise to Frippie.
He couldn't possibly ask Wilfred for the grapes for
her. It was the kind of thing Wilfred would con-
sider quite unpardonable; he knew Wilfred well
enough for that. It might mean a breach of their

CONFUSIONS 97

friendship, even. Besides, Wilfred wonld refuse.
There was his mother to be considered, he wonld say
they were her grapes, and of course they were. Both
Wilfred and his mother wonld resent more than a
little the idea of their hothouse grapes — ^f ruit of such
careful culture — going to gratify the whim of a girl
like Frippie. They would feel it as compromising
them distastefully, in an undignified way — ^whether
any one knew of it or not.

*'. . . and the men will probably strike. How do
you think the Casle3rs and the Bradwells will like
thatf Yetminster will alienate ihem, and they're im-
portant. Does he think they'll put up with a strike,
just for him to lay out his private Oolf Course in
peace and quiet f Now, my dear chap, can't you put
all this to your father f He doesn't want to have
bricks thrown at his head, does hef"

Alec began to listen. **Will they throw bricks!"
he thought.

^'You don't want them to go waylaying you and
your brother? It's a question of mutual interests.
Glaive. When your interests coincide, you ought to
get together. Yetminster simply must climb down
gracefully. He can save his face easily enough.
There's a very ugly spirit in the men, just the spirit
Joe Matcham wants, the spirit he can use — bad
blood—"

''What 11 happen if he does use itt" asked Alec,
listlessly distracted by Matcham 's name.

' ' There may be violence. It 's serious. They won 't
stop at gate-smashing. They'll be breaking windows

98 BRUTE GODS

and burning things up. Bemember most of these men
have been in the war. They don't eare about danger,
they won't be afraid. Yetminster doesn't realize how
things have changed. . . ."

Of course, if Alec did as Frippie had suggested and
asked for the grapes for his family— if he said he
wanted them for his aunt — ^Mrs. Yail would give them
at once and think nothing of it But he couldn't do
that: you couldn't, when you were friends with a
man. Even if he wasn't found out, he wouldn't be
able to feel that he and Wilfred were friends any
more. Of course Frippie couldn 't understand.

'^ . . it 11 mean the undoing of all our work here."
Perry threw out his well-shaped hand, with its fingers
curving inwards. * * You ask what '11 happen. Every-
thing that's unEnglish will happen. The men will
do exactly what Matcham wants them to do. They
won't vote at the next Election."

''Then the Liberal man will get the seat instead
of yout"

*'0h, I'm not thinking of myself." Perry stiff-
ened professionally. ''The whole thing is much
larger than anything personal. Much. It may mean
the start of getting the whole country into a mess.
This is an important district, politically ; may set the
ball roUuig. If Matcham gets a hold ynih his crazy
'House of Workers' notions down here — ^'Labour
Separatism' — and all because of a private Golf Course.
The thing's ridiculous! Ab if the public Course
wasn't good enough for any one I Best on the East
Coast—"

CONFUSIONS 99

Alec decided to buy the grapes, and lie to Frippie.
He didn't like doing it, but after all she was a girl,
and it was the only way out. He became conscious
that Peny had stopped talking, that he was noticing
his distraction. The boy grew embarrassed. Of
course Peny would think he was distracted because of
his stepmother. He would have to attend.

**Do the people you want to vote for you like your
going about golfing f he asked, glancing at the man's
gentlemanly heather-coloured athletic-looking suit.

''My work's in the evenings mostly. I must keep
fit." Perry answered with competence and dignity.
''They understand that. And, between ourselves,
they rather like us to live like gentlemen. — I had a
twosome ynth Lord Charles Freyle yesterday." He
betrayed some elation.

"Then why don't you get him to talk to his father
for you!"

"Oh, no. Wouldn't do at all. Couldn't possibly
broach the subject with him. It's a matter of diplo-
macy, my dear Olaive." Again he became confiden-
tial. "It's the right thing for Lord Charles to be on
terms with me, don't you sect It's — er— disarming.
And it suits me too: it's the English way, keeps any-
thing personal quite out of it, on both sides. The
House of Commons way, the sporting way. We under-
stand one another. We're enemies, but we're
friends."

' ' And you 're both of you against Matcham ! ' ' Alec
began to see light.

"Any sane man would be against Matcham."

100 BRUTE GODS

''I don't know that I should be, if I were a work-
ing-man. His ideas are more — ^well, they're more
exciting than yours."

*' 'Exciting I' Yes, that's just it. People can't
stand settling down after the war, they want excite-
ment and sensation. We're rapidly degenerating into
a neurotic hysterical nation, Olaive, that's the whole
trouble. Matcham is a man utterly ignorant of
history and the very elements of economics, and so are
all the other men who 're behind these harebrained
grotesqueries ! But any quack nostrum for scrapping
the Constitution will get a hearing nowadays. This
' Council of Workmen, ' elected by a separated Labour,
legislating with the House of Commons as Second
Chamber — ^manual workers to vote only for the
'Council' candidates — ^Labour in one box and the
middle and upper classes in another ! Ton only have
to state the scheme to prove its wildcat absurdity!
All the worst evils of class separatism. None of the
right fusion and fellowship. It would murder na-
tional unity ! ' ' Perry made a forensic gesture. * * I 'd
back commonsense against 'excitement' any day," he
went on more calmly. "Is it commonsense to stick
a knife into the Mother of Parliaments f — Of course
they'll precious soon try to get all the power. — ^We
want reform, as we've always had it, that is by the
will of the whole nation, through the representatives
of the whole nation in the House of Commons. Re-
form's a blessing to the People, revolution damns
them. Look at Russian experience. We want a true
and progressive democracy, not a division of the na-

CONFUSIONS 101

tion into two hostile camps, with fruitless warfare and
interminable deadlocks."

^'Well, if enough of the people want this separate
Council, I suppose they'll get it." Alec was reflect-
ing on the uneasy antagonism which he knew his
father had for Matcham's Movement. Bricks. . . .
He felt friendly to Matcham and wished he under-
stood more.

"The People will get what they want. Of course.
It's our business to see they are wisely guided. Do
you know that these Separatist people won't have any
members of their precious Council who aren't actually
working-men f As if a man could fit himself for legis-
lation in his spare time of an evening! What's to
become of intellect f Can we do without intellect,
tell me that! God knows I'm a democrat — ^through
and through — ^but the People's Will must be expressed
by the real friends of the People — ^by trained men,
by educated men with a sense of history and economics
—or we shall all of us go down to chaos and destruc-
tion!"

Alec was silent, meditating in some comprehension
upon the friendly personal relations between Mr.
Perry and Lord Charles Preyle.

''It isn't as if our Party weren't in earnest about
Reform," the young politician went on. *'We're
pledged to drastic measures — ^tremendously drastic.
Why, I've gone so far as to tell the people here — and
I had authority for doing it, too— that hereditary
wealth will have to go. Gradually, of course — ^by a
gradual raise of the Death Duties. We can't at-

102 BRUTE GODS

tempt too much at once; that isn't the English
way — "

Alec looked np at the rugged highways of the sky,
travelled by greenish clouds. He felt much less un-
sympathetic with Nature now — ^Nature that was so
far off from all this talk. In their indifference to
''the unrest of the times" Nature and he were agreed.
Still, if this affair could be used against his father, to
punish his father, to be revenged on him. . . .

''Yetminster can't do it," Perry was insisting.
''He simply can't do it. Why, he's as bad as
Matcham — ^the two extremes 1 What we want is a
decent working compromise between the classes, got
at in a decent way. Bevolution will never do any-
thing in England, the idea's grotesque."

Alec did not answer. The politician was disap-
pointed in him, he had expected him to be flattered by
this confidential conversation, enough flattered to let
himself be used. Yetminster must have his warning
somehow, and at once, or this might be the finishing
stroke for the law-abiding party of Parliamentary
democratic reform. It might even be the end of his
own political career. Already, things had been pretty
tricky. Perry was quite clever enough to gauge the
dangers of the East Anglian temperament These
I>eople had never wholly trusted him, these Suffolk
peasants with their childish suspicions, their obstinate
pseudo-shrewdness. "I een't all a duzzy fule," one
of them had told him that morning. He had often
been disconcerted by the way they had of listening
to him without contradiction or comment, and he

CONFUSIONS 108

knew that Matchaxa's andiences didn't behave like
that. He hadn't felt so sore of the factory workers,
either. Still, he had been gaining ground. Things
had been looking np, and he had got on famously with
the women. Qooi looks and the personal touch — the
right manner. He'd been especially successful with
the women relatives of his political enemies. That
extension of the Suffrage, what a capital thing!
Practically the whole female vote would go for him
— ^would have gone for him, if it hadn't been for this
cursed affair. It must blow over, it must b^ made
to. Perry thought of the excellent reports he had
written to the "Chief" — giving credit to himself with
such subtle indirection! Political expression had
always come naturally to him: he was bom for the
life — bom for a ''career" — Well, if this young fool
wouldn't help him, hanged if he wouldn't go and have
a talk with old Glaive himself. He reflected on the
good taste he had shown in not alluding to the Glaive
scandal.

"You'll put in a word, won't you, with your father t
That's all I ask." He broke the silence, conciliatory,
suggestive.

"I don't want to be mixed up in it. The whole
thing bores me." "Stop them throwing bricks at
that devil," thought the boy. "Not likely!" They
turned a comer.

"Oh, all right. It's really of no particular conse-
quence, after all, what ycm choose to do. I only

104 BRUTE GODS

wanted to— ^Vhy, what the deuce is going on over
theret"

*'Wlieret''

**0n the Green. In front of the * Parrot and
Punchbowl.' It's a meeting. Oad, I wonder if the
strike's on already!"

''Joe Matcham's speaking," said Alec, and quick-
ened his step.

**Let him," Perry observed viciously. Then, as a
shout came from the assembled men: ''I shall go
up to your place. If you won't warn your father and
Yetminster, I must."

''Why not come on and tackle Joe Matchamt"

"I would with pleasure if I thought it the right
move. My judgment is against it, at the present
moment. Do more harm than good."

Alec looked at him contemptuously, and resolved
that he would never be like that about anytliing.
He felt oddly thrilled by a sudden sense of the virtues
of courage and truth. Tremendously he wanted to
hear what Matcham was saying. The elan of a fight
flushed his spirit — ^a fight that would somehow be
against his father, against what held his father up
and gave him his power for hurt.

CHAPTER VII

APTBR Perry had left him, the boy hurried
on toward the Oreen. He began to recognize
some of the men in Matcham's audience —
men he remembered in earlier days sitting in the
''Adult Schoor' with their shiny clothes and greased
hair. And there was the man whose son had given
Frippie her bicycle ; Stevens, who kept the small iron-
monger 's shop at Malstowe, a tall spectacled ginger-
haired man. He used to be a Radical in the old
days, but was always terribly afraid of losing the
gentry 's patronage. He was standing now at the back
of the crowd, with his long neck craned up towards the
speaker. He was the only tradesman, so far as Alec
could see. The lower grades of the middle class were
represented only by him and by "the Reverend Car-
rick" — ^the Independent Church of Christ minister
at Cranton, where the large Iron Works were. There
were a few children about, with that curious look
of stolid deformity that country children often have.
The crowd was mainly of the Works men, none of
whom Alec knew by sight: there was a sprinkling
of agricultural labourers. The editor of a local paper,
a stooi)ed gaunt man, very much the worse for middle
age, stood next to Stevens, taking notes. Alec re-
membered hearing that he had been recently converted
by Matcham, and let him do what he liked with his

105

106 BRUTE GODS

joumaL The few girls and women who were there
all stood together, rather uneasily, on the outskirts.

As Alec came up, there was a deep roll of laughter,
that seemed suddenly to puncture its expanded volume
on a sharp staccato point. The Reverend Carrick had
laughed last

''That's right, Joel" a man up at the front called
out. "We don' want narthin' to du with Parlyment
no morel" Alec recognized Jos Clark, Frippie's
father.

**What were they laughing att" he whispered
Stevens eagerly, then looked to the knot of women for
Frippie, thinking that she might be there before him.
The idea that she was riding a bicycle irrationally
stuck. **What did you sayt"

*'He was a-mobbin' o' Perry, a-talkin' like he talk,"
the ironmonger repUed, on his guard.

Joe Matcham held up his hand.

''Now, boys, I'll tell you straight what we want.
We want every man here— and every woman — ^to give
their word of honour as a worker — ^and that's as good
as the word of honour of a gentleman, and better — "

The men cheered loudly.

"I want you to give me, one and all, your solemn
pledge that you won't cast a vote at the next Elec-
tion."

"Or at any lection, Joe!" Clark shouted, his voice
hoarse.

"Don't worry about lection after next. If we
'aven't got something worth votin' for by then, we'd
best go crawlin' on all fours up t' th' big 'ouse.

CONFUSIONS 107

and ast 'is lordship to spit on our 'eads to keep 'em
cool. 'Ands np them as promise me not to vote next
timel"

Every hand went np, and the crowd 's hoorays were
longer and londer. Alec scrutinized Matcham's pale
face, with the prominent misshapen nose, thickened
at the end, the clinching lips, the smashing chin, the
deep-driven grey-green eyes, active with the will of
the heavy rough-cast bulged forehead that overhung
them. He was a stoutly built man of about fifty, from
the North-country, but, except for the emphatic drop-
ping of his aitches, the accent was not very marked.
Alec wondered why he didn't look triumphant, joyous,
with all that cheering that he had made. Instead,
he looked grim and level and grave — ^with a gravity
driven in as deeply as his eyes, and, like his eyes,
lined bitterly round. He gave no room to jubilation.
The man seemed girded, held fast, by a cold passion
of tragic energy and sacramental hate. Yet he lad
made them laugh. The boy was strongly drawn to
him: he sought identification with that massiveness
and weight that so shamed the fiiimsy lightness of his
own adolescence. If he could get such power as that !
— ^He would get it.

^'I tell you, men, I'm glad — " Matcham raised
his head, and held out his arm with hand and fingers
taut. ''I'm glad this 'ere 'as 'appened to show us
your way of shakin' 'ands with it. There are some
questions we're oU of us astin' now, and we're astin'
them 'ard. . What's the good of the votet What's
the good of Parlymentt We know just what

108 BRUTE GODS

Parrment's done for us^ and what we say is: 'Not
enough.' Extry shillin' on the Pensions or the In-
surance! Thank yer for nothin'I What we say is:
'Take them sops an' slops of yours^ and sit in 'em —
take a bath in 'em — anything you like — so long's you
take 'em away from us,' Oh, we've got our Labour
members an' our Radicals an' our People's Party
men! 'Ave wet An' what good do they do ust
What good could they do us when we give 'em a salary
that puts 'em in the class that's on our necks t Men
are 'uman. You know what 'appens. When they've
been in that 'Ouse a month they begin to rot and
they're clubmen an' fake gentlemen an' 'alf-'oggers
an' quarter- 'oggers, an' 'alf of 'em was that already
when they tricked the labourin' man into votin' for
them. We don't want no more writer Socialists and
lawyer Radicals, we want the real thing and no fake.
Don't we know what we want, ment Don't we know
'ow i;o get itt Do we think we'll get it by goin' on
with bein' tricked by these 'ere Mr. Perrys, and scat-
terin' the few good men we do 'ave through a 'Ouse
full of lawyers an' wire-pullers an' place- 'unters so
that they don't count t We've seen just 'ow much we
got by votin', it's time now to see 'ow much we can
get by chuckin' the vote to 'ell !"

The last words tore Matcham's worn voice along
a ragged edge. He stood with unchanging eyes upon
the faces of the crowd. It seemed to Alec that he
looked directly and understandingly at him. The
boy was much moved. The men were shufSing and
shouting, the women began to chatter.

CONFUSIONS 109

**We know what we want now I'' Matcham shouted,
then waited a moment, with hand raised. ''We
know what. An' that's a law-makin' Council of
our own folks and no other folks, elected by us and
nobody elst — a Council what's our own clean through
— a Workers' Council that'll mean the Workers' will
same as the 'Ouse o' Lords used to mean the Lords'
will — Men! You can 'ave that Council in three
months if you all stand together through the country !
If seven out o' ten of us want it, we can get it in a
year! Then we won't 'ave no more cheatin' an' lyin'
of us out o' our rights now that they dassn't rob us
in the open. Mind you, it ain't only 'ere this '11 be
'appenin', it's all jover the country — all over!"

He paused, looking with a set distant gaze out over
the open fields. His audience remained silent. Sud-
denly his eyes were back at them, and his chin set.

**We can't do it, can't wet Our friend Mr. Perry
— our nice polite place-seekin' friend Mr. Tool P^ry
— *e says we can't do it. 'Quite impracticable.'
That 's what they 've always said : if they don 't want
a thing they say it can't be done. Mr. Perry can
wait. Mr. Ga-ma-li-el Perry, in 'is bran-new sporty
togs ! 'B 'as very nice manners, we don 't deny, but
'e don't know everything. Do you think I'm a
dreamer, ment Do I look like a dreamer f Is Mat
Ford a dreamer, an' Ben Webber, an' Petey Parrallt
I tell ye who's the dreamer now: it's that lord in t'
big 'ouse who's dreamin' if 'e thinks 'e can stop you
goin' to work by that path over the — "

A burst of cheering cut him off. Alec was surprised

110 BRUTE GODS

by its intensity and protraction. Those other things
that Matcham had said were so much more im-
portant. . . .

''. . . We've got the rights o' things in our 'eads
now, an' it'll take more'n the newspapers and the
* People's Party' to get 'em out again. — ^Well, boys,
the strike aim't off till 'is lordship takes what's left
o' that gate away, an' then there are bigger things
comin'l"

These last words were hardly heard through the im-
mediate cheers that followed the reference to the gate,
and Matcham twisted his lips.

''Bigger things yet!" he shouted. "What if Yet-
minster does give in over thist That won't alter
what we're fightin' for. We won't go about sayin':
'Aim't 'e kindt Aim't 'e reasonable-like an' doesn't
'e love the pore workin' mant' The fight aim't over
slong's we're under and they're up." Matcham's
gestures grew freer, they had a new violence. He
raised a clenched fist and drove it down with an out-
ward jerk of his elbow. "We're to see to it that this
world aim't the sraiseless, stoopid, ugly, disgustin'
scramblin' an' tusslin' an' bitin' an' tearin' for
money as it 'as been all these years I We're to see
to it that we 'as a chance to live like men, an' slong's
one man 'as 'is private car an' 'is big 'ouse an' 'is
servants, an' 'underds of others 'ave to weigh in
agenst 'im by bein' shoved out of a decent life, so long
our fight '11 go onl An' it won't be enough for us
that two or three of our men 'ere an' there 'ave a
better chance of gettin' rich--of risin' in the

CONFUSIONS 111

world — " he stressed the word with savage scorn —
* 'than they 'ad before. We don't want a world where
every man 'as 'is chance of gettin' np an' cmshin'
others, we want a world where no man 'as the chance
o' bein' crashed. We don't want no jugglin' an'
shnflSin' o' the same old cards. By God, men, is it
any better to 'ave an open jSeld for this beastly
scramblin' mean cnnnin' crafty game o' beggarin'
others an' fattenin' yerself t is it any better to 'ave
an open field for this than a dose onet It's not a
man's game, that, it's a brute's game — ^an' when they
talk to you about savin' money up an' goin' on to
better wages an' p'raps startin' in business for yerself
some day, they're temptin' you to be traitors an' scabs.
They're tryin' to turn you away from the brother-
hood o' man— that's what they're doin'. Ye can't
kneel yerselves down to their gods without yer stick
yer knees in yer brothers' chests an' on yer brothers'
bellies — ^an' the reason is that their gods aim't real
gods, they're brutes — brutes — they're brute gods — "
He stopped, gasping, and Alec was startled by the
greyness that had overspread his face, a greyness
notable, menacing. "He een't well, Joe een't," the
boy overheard a voice near by. **He du hully talk
quare when he een't well. I don't rightly fare
t'know what he's arter, du yut" Even Jos Clark
and the Beverend Carrick and the editor looked be-
wildered, but they cheered; so did the Works men.
Matcham had forgotten them all: not one of the
audience, except Alec, had in the least understood!
him for the last few minutes, but most of them were

112 BRUTE GODS

stirred by his emotion, drawn for the moment in its
tide. Alec was as thongh battered and ungovernable
in a rough seansurge, feeling danger, exalted by it.
He had not looked for Frippie again.

''WeU, boys, God bless yer." Matcham had not
wholly recovered himself, he spoke labouring. ''Fare
th' well. TaUdn' aim't much, it's what ye think an'
what ye mean. €h>d bless you, women. We want you
fightin' with us, we can't win without you. An' ye'U
hold up your 'eads with the best of us, ye 're not like
some others who think they're your betters, others
with fine white 'ands an' wearin' silks and goin' 'alf
naked of an evenin'." The bitter severity of his con-
tempt and condemnation seemed to gnaw at the air,
and Alec had the sense of gooseflesh. ''Women who
wouldn't soil their fingernails with a minute of honest
work, but soil their honour with the stinkin ' muck of
'arlotry — parasites who can't find nothin' to fill up
their idleness with but the wickedness of adultery!
Thank €h>d for our women, I say!" Jos Clark
gulped uneasily. "Thank Qod for our wives an' our
sisters an' our comrades in the fight!"

Matcham got down from the box, reaching his hand
to Jos Clark for support. He went straight into the
cheering crowd that pressed to him. They were slap-
ping his shoulders and grasping his hands. Those
last remarks had been perfectly well understood, as
was shown by meaning looks and furtive smiles. The
Reverend Carrick clapped till his hands ached. Alec
was stunned. Joe Matcham on his father's side!
He turned away.

CHAPTER VIII

TIE boy walked off in dniled amazement
His mind hnng motionless over the gross
and clogged bmtality of that denunciation.
How was it possible t And Matcham had been so
fine I He had told the troth ; then he had lied, he had
discoloured his troth — shattered it. Alec quickened
to indignation. How had the man dared t What
did he know about the Mater, he knew nothing —
nothings— and he could stand up and shout out
''Adultery!" — as if that were enough. He could say
these wrong lying things to please the workmen, be-
cause he wanted to end up with their listening to
him, and they hadn't been listening properly just
before. He said that for effect — ^no, he believed it,
you could see that. These men didn't know; what
were they worth, what sense of justice could they
and Matcham have, except just for themselves t They
thought justice meant their having more mon^ to
spend and other people having less I As if there
weren't things more important than that. ... It
would be worse than anything, being ruled by these
people. ** Brute gods" — ^but you could see that
Matcham would like to send the Mater back, and
nothing could be more brutish than that. Carrick
would send her back, no doubt, and Stevens— 4amn
all of them! Father CoUett was much wiser, he

113

114 BRUTE GODS

knew much more, he wotQd never. ... If Matcham's
lot did get all they wanted, it would be just as easy
for his father to be what he had been, to do what he
had done— just the same; they wouldn't punish him,
wouldn't make him pay. . . .

Those men were shouting again. No, they weren't
shouting, exactly, they were hooting. Whyt Alec
hoped they were hooting Matcham. He turned, and
there beyond the ''Parrot and Punchbowl," in rapid
course toward the Oreen that lay at the turn of the
road, ran the old '' two-seater" car with his father
driving it, alone. They were threatening him.
Perry's remark about bricks rushed back to Alec's
mind. Would they attack himt He thrilled and
tingled, he began running back. He would have to
defend his father, if they. . . . That was the worst
of it, he would have to defend him. What would
Matcham dot

Alec ran, keeping his eye on the car. It reached
the Oreen a minute or so before he did, and as his
father got out, a stone was flung, smashing one of
the car's headlights. Mr. Qlaive did not seem to
notice, he advanced briskly, with his creeping smile,
he held his little figure sharply erect. Another stone
was thrown, passing close by him : Alec could not be
sure if he had been hit or not. He was darting for-
ward as Matcham cried: ''Don't 'urt 'im, boys I
What's the good o' that!"

"Mr. Matcham," said Glaive, "you are the chair-
man, I believe t May I address your meeting, and if
I may, will you get me a hearing?"

CONFUSIONS 115

**If the men want to 'ear yer, they will 'ear yer."

*'We don't fare to wanter hear narthin' oflf o'
himr^ cried the workman who had thrown the first
stone. ''Why cooldn' th' owd man a' come hisself,
'stead o ' sendin ' his little dawg f ' '

''Because he went up to London this morning.
I Ve come on my own responsibility. ' '

"Ho, run awuoy, hev het"

"What I have to say won't take two minutes, Mr.
Matcham."

Olaive's tone was one of friendly equal acquaint-
anceship. Alec noted, with distasteful admiration,
that his father gave no hint of fear.

"Well, boys." Matcham held up his hand.
"Shall we 'ear what Mr. Glaive 'as to sayt"

"Goo on, Joe. Put him up!"

"He heen't lost aU o' his guts, hev he?"

"An' no stones, boys. We play fair. Throwin'
stones won't 'elp ye."

Matcham 's voice was tired and hoarse. He leaned
heavily on Jos Clark's shoulder. Glaive jumped up
on the box, his grey dustcoat blowing about him.

"If you're expecting any message from Lord Tet-
minster, I haven't got one. That's the first thing."
He spoke rapidly, with a direct business manner —
no gesture. "Lord Yetminster had gone to London
before I heard of what happened this morning. I
want to tell you what I'm going to do, not what he's
going to do. You can guess that I wouldn't have
come out to speak to you when my heart's crushed by
a private grief— a heavy personal loss — '

99

116 BRUTE GODS

His voice trembled slightly, but no more than a
man's should. There was a short snicker from one
of the men, but it at once died, abortive. The refer-
ence had unmistakably touched their sympathies,
changed their whole attitude: Matcham and Clark
and the Reverend Carrick were the most evidently
won over. Alec felt a dr3ring heat on his palate.

''I wouldn't have come to you men if I hadn't felt
I must come. Whatever sorrow — or shame — " he
hushed his voice to the word — ^''whatever disgrace
may come upon a man must not interfere with his
duty as a citizen." The Reverend Carrick nodded
appreciatively. ''I want to tell you that I feel as
strongly about this matter as Mr. Matcham or any
of you, and I want to tell you this: that either one
of two things will happen." He began to speak with
great deliberation, separating each word. '' Either
Lord Yetminster will let you men go by that path —
or — " he sped up his speech — ^''or I'U resign my -pomr
tion as agent and help you to break down the gate
again tomorrow morning."

He jumped down from the box almost before he
had finished speaking, nodded sharply to Matcham
with a quick ''Thank you I" and had taken several
steps away from the crowd, through the clear space
behind the box, before their stupefaction broke in
violent cheering. Olaive did not turn his head: he
walked on at the same pace to his car and began turn-
ing the crank, with his back to the shouting. Alec,
who had drifted towards the road to get a better
view of his father speaking, advanced from force of

CONFUSIONS 117

habit to crank the engine for him. ''You heret"
Glaiye looked up, surprised, but evidently pleased
that his son had witnessed the scene. He did not ask
why he had not come home before. ''Shall I take
you backV he said, as Alec began cranking. The
boy shook his head. He noticed that one of his
father's fingers was bleeding at the knuckle. Glaive
got into the car and drove off, as the men surged
out to the ready still shouting, and waving their
caps. The eclipsed Matcham waved his with the rest,
but Alec thought he looked hit ; there was something
dejected, disillusioned, something lonely, about his
walk and the loose worn hang of his figure.

The car passed out of sight. A couple of farm men
recognized Alec, and one of them said: "Your
father's a game 'un, een't het" "Oh, he's all right,"
the boy replied shortly, aware that a number of the
men had begun to stare at him, realizing who he was.
He was too much in the thick of his thoughts to be
embarrassed. There was Matcham, walking off with
Jos Clark and the editor. They must know they
were beaten. What would Frippie think of all this t
Would she think anything! Qrapes would matter
more to her. . . .

The ginger-haired ironmonger was making for
Alec: he looked pleased and cordial, probably he
wanted to offer his congratulations. The boy hurried
off to escape him. So that was how it had ended,
with cranking up the car for his father. And cheers,
not bricks. Victory at the price of a hurt knuckle,
father had more courage than he had. Oh,

118 BRUTE GODS

there could only be one way against himt Alec was
choking impotently with tears and rage. Courage
— cunning — ^it had been a great stroke — no one could
deny. Father Collett was right: it was possible to
be successful and yet altogether contemptible — ^more
hateful than ever because of the success. — Matcham
had spoken for his father, then his father had come
in and beaten him. And no matter if the Matchams
or the Perrys or the Tetminsters were up, his father
was bound to win, bound to come in to win, just like
that, with his creeping smile.

1

CHAPTER IX

Jf

ELL, fat-h^ad, dinner's over.
*'I know that/'

''Why didn't you come back with the
old mant" Mervyn, with a peculiarly English look,
lazy and athletic, was lying in a deep chair by the
littered dining-table. ''He said you were down at
that show, he was hugely bucked."

"Where is he nowt" Alec rang the bell for some
food.

''Study."

"Hope he stays there."

"Oh, he's in a roarin' good temper. He was
frightfully pipped before because you didn 't turn up.
Swearin' at you like hell. Silly fool, you might think
of me now and again. There I was hangin' round
for the bloomin' sermon, and the guv 'nor in the hell
of a hair all the while. Then he put it ofiF till four
o'clock. Hangin' round again. More naughty
temper. Now we have to have it t 'morrow instead
— ^just as bad as havin ' it twice over. What the devil
makes you so latet If you'd come straight back
from the 'Parrot,' walkin', you'd have been here be-
fore this." Mervyn's tone was unwontedly worried.

"Oh — ^I didn't feel like it." Alec was conscious
of the imi>osgibility of explaining why he had
lingered and gone out of his way. Having refused

119

120 BRUTE GODS

to ride with his father, he didn't want it to appear
that he had simplj walked straig^ht back instead.
''What's he doing in the Study t" he added quickly.

^'Makin' out a statement for the Bat."

''I wonder how the Batll take it." Alec knew
how well made out that statement for Lord Yet-
minster would be — a document of secret diplomacy.
He sat down to his warmed-up beef.

''The Batt" Mervyn waited till the servant had
gone, his upbringing not being sufficiently aristocratic
for him to ignore her presence. "Oh, the old man's
safe. He knows that. There are too many on his
side. Oad, it was rather a brilliant idea, you know.
Pretty clever. The gate's gone already, Morris told
me."

"H'm." Alec grunted, depressed by the look of
the salt, messed and melted by the brown gravy at
the side of his plate.

"Auntie's gone to bed with a headache." Mervyn
spoke with the inflexion of taken-f or-granted contempt
that always accompanied any reference he made to his
Aunt Cathy. "Very peevish. The old man's good
spirits quite upset her. Always works that way.
Before that, she'd been no end merry and bright —
not givin' herself away, of course. Gone to bed
directly after dinner, and now shell have indiges-
tion."

He took up the paper, and Alec ate, thinking of
Father CoUett's niece in the priest's dining-room.
They would probably be having dessert at that
moment, with port or sherry. Better stuff than this

CONFUSIONS 121

beer. Alec Imd giyen no farther thought to the
priest's promised sermon. That was crowded out^
well forgotten.

''Did yon know that Father Collett had a. niece,
and she's staying with the Borkest" he asked his
brother.

''Oh, that foreign-lookin' girl with the untidy
black hair t Met her in Malstowe with Doreen Burke
this afternoon. Queer eyes. Damn good opinion of
herself, I should say — "

"How old is shet Is she prettyt"

"Decent sort of figure. Looked as though she
didn't wear stays and didn't have to. Don't know
about her age, one of those girls it's difficult to tell.
Not so awfully young. Didn't attract me, so I didn't
think about her bein' pretly. She may be."

"You're sure she was the one I meant"

' ' Of course she was, ass. Doreen introduced her as
Miss Collett, said she was a relation — ^niece or cousin
or somethin', I don't remember. Her eyes remind
you of the Bullock's, too — ^though, by Gad, her build
don't."

"You saw Nita today, I supposet"

"Yes — or rather I mean I didn't." Mervyn
frowned uneasily and took up his paper again.

"Oh, was she outt Rough luck."

Alec finished his meat in silence, while Mervyn kept
jerking one leg up and down, in a disconcerting
rhjrthm of unease. Then he dropped the paper on
the floor, got up and pulled one of the straight-backed
chairs round to Alec's side.

122 BRUTE GODS

''Look here,'' he said, sittmg by him. ''I may aa
well tell you." He glanced behind him at the door.
''Must tell some one. I want to get out of itl"

' ' Qet out of what t ' ' Alec stared, startled.

"Out of being engaged, you idioti"

"Good Lordl— WeU, I'm glad you do."

"Oh, are yout Plucky lot I care about your bein'
glad." Mervyn seemed ofiFended. "God, don't I
want to get out of it, thoughl Of course you can't
understand — "

""Wliy can't It" Alec paused: he was not wholly
unprepared for the announcement. He remembered
one or two things that he hadn't made much account
of at the time. "It must be pretty awful, marrying
some one you don't want to marry. Don't you do
it. 'S any way I can help!"

"All very well to say 'Don't you do it.' "
Mervyn drew his chair from the table. "You don't
know how damn difficult it is, when a thing like that's
been runnin' on so long. — ^You know that girl Dolly
Drake. — Go on, eat your bloody cheese. — ^Well, fact
is I've been gettin' in deeper and deeper with her:
I'm up to my bloomin' neck an' overl"

"What, you don't mean you've — t" Alec was
caught back to Frippie and the mystery of his un-
known.

"Of course not. Look out, or 111 punch you in
the eye. This is the real thing, I tell you. Do you
think it could make all this difference with a girl
who wasn't straight! I'd marry Dolly tomorrow if
I coxad."

CONFUSIONS 128

'^ Well, of course you can't marry Nita, then. Why,
you oughtn't to—'* Alec stopped, trying to re-
member what Dolly Drake looked like. She was a
young cousin of Nita's, and she sometimes stayed with
the Besines. Alec had only seen her once or twice,
he had not noticed her much. ''She's only a kid,
isn't shet" he asked.

''Seventeen."

"When did you firsl^t"

"Oh, I don't know." Mervyn looked hard at the
table-cloth. "It was something about the way — don't
you know, the way she's made — ^that got me. She's
so slim to her waist, then she's different, somehow.
But that was only the beginning. Oh, Lord, you
can't explain these things. It's the way she looks
and the way her face changes when she smiles. She
makes me feel she belongs to me, sort of, and then I
think how I'm not supposed to have anything to do
with her— not anything at all — ^that being engaged
to Nita makes me an utter outsider for her. Oh,
what's the good of talkin' to you, you don't under-
stand. I keep thinkin' of how she goes up to her
room, and does her hair and washes her face or gets
her things out to play tennis in — ^and she might be in
the North Pole's far's I'm concerned I"

' ' But you were awfully keen on Nita, weren 't you f ' '

"Never so much." Mervyn was emphatic and con-
vinced. "Never like this — ^nothing like. It was dif-
ferent with her. Somehow I could always under-
stand what I felt about Nita — don't you know, I could
get it all — all there was. There was nothing— noth-

12f4 BRUTE GODS

ing past it, if yon know what I mean t This is — well,
it excites yon more in the kind of way girls do excite
yon, and less — ^mnch less and mnch more. I don't
know how it is, hang it all." He was trying to say
that his feeling for Dolly was both more and less
sensual than his feeling for Nita; that, with Dolly,
the violence and the diffusion of his emotion were
in contradiction. ''This thing's like— God knows
what it's like. I started playin' that old piano when
I got back, that seemed to^ I played all right, too,
I can tell you — ^better than I used to when I was
in practice. Or p'raps I only thought I was playin'
so damn well because of the way I felt. Then Auntie
had to come in, and of course I couldn't go on."
Ton saw Dolly today, thent"
Of course I did. What do you think t No one
else was in. It wasn't on purpose ; I didn't know and
she didn't. I'd never kissed her before — "

"She's fond of you, then!"

Mervyn nodded. He took out his crumpled hand-
kerchief and stared at it.

*'What exactly happened?" Alec, flicked by emu-
lation, was eager for details of guidance.

"You don't expect me to tell you, do you!" His
brother opened cold eyes at him. * * Not likely. ' '

"Look here, Mervyn, you simply can't go on be-
ing engaged to Nita."

"If only it hadn't been for this business of the
Mater—"

"What has that got to do with itt"

Alec lit a cigarette and offered one to Mervyn, who

CONFUSIONS 125

took it absently. The jotmg man went back to hiB
annchaiTy and sat smoking^ thinking. Alec sat by
him, near the empty fireplace.

''It's got a whole lot to do with it. Every one
wonld say we're a rotten lot. The guv 'nor — "

''What the devil does it matter about himt What
business has he — " Alec's antagonism struck vio-
lently.

"Oh, he'd cut up pretty rough. He'd be fright-
fully vicious because it would seem as though the
Mater's runnin' ofl! had gone and bust things up in
the family. He'd simply hate people sayin' that —
and of course they would. It would be a score for her,
you see: of course it wouldn't really, but that's how
the old man would take it, I 'm certain. And people
are so deviUsh touchy about morals an' that. — ^Damn
funny thing when you think of it," he went on re-
flectively, "about the Mater. No reason why she
should have stayed on here with him and us, was there
— if she didn't want to!"

"Of course there wasn't! But why should you
think of himf You're the one who'd have to marry
Nita, you'd have to be married to her — ^for God
knows how long, too—"

"I know that! But you've no notion how damn-
ably difficult it would be to break ofl. The longer you
go on bein' engaged the worse it is. This is dead
private, Alec, but I haven't cared — ^not really cared
about Nita for the last year or so. We've been en-
gaged too long, that's the trouble."

He paused, thinking of how his love had turned

126 BRUTE GODS

sour^ or evaporated, with the waiting, waiting; he
knew the treasure to be lost or spoiled, because
guarded from him too long.

"Well,** said Alec, "it's better, anyhow, than if
you'd found out after you were married."

''Rot! It always happens then. Every one knows
that. And it's not so bad because everybody's in the
same box. You expect it then, and you know you
can't get out of it. I should have had something,
too. — Can't think how the beastly thing started, ex-
actly. She began looMn' different to me, somehow,
it got on my nerves, some things she did — ^the way
she said things sometimes, an' all that. I s'pose it
sounds awfully caddish, but it wasn't my fault, was
itt I didn't want not to be in love with her any
more — didn't do it on purpose, did It — God, how
sick I get of bein' always sort of put in brackets
with her — ^'Mervyn an' Nita, Nita an' Mervyn' — all
the time. It's enough to make any one fed up. Since
I got out of the Army it's been ever so much worse.
I've seen more of her, you see, been seein' her aU the
time when, I wasn't at Oxford — "

*'But how about Dolly t How do you know it
wouldn't be just the same if you saw more of hert
Wouldn't 'Mervyn and Dolly' get to be just the
samet"

"Shut up." The- young man winced sharply at
that coupling of names. "Of course it wouldn't be
the same, it couldn't be, ever. I'm absolutely certain.
I told you it wasn't like Dolly with Nita, not even
at the very beginning. Only I didn't know. Of

CONFUSIONS 127

conrse Nita's a jolly pretty girl, and I'm fond of her
still, in a way. She's a good sort, and that makes
it worse."

''I can't see what right the guv 'nor has to stop
you—!"

''He's known the Besines for years." Mervyn
spoke in intense depression. ''Up at Oxford with
old Dr. Besine an' all that. Nita will have some
money, too — ^a fat lot of good that would do me,
losin' Dolly! Of course she won't have an3rthing.
Her father's dead. She's here for a holiday, works
with some milliner in London. You know what the
guv 'nor would think of that — "

' * Oh, heaps of girls work for their living. Nobody
thinks an3rthing of it since the war."

"Oh, don't they! That's all bluflf. At any rate
it depends on the kind of work — ^how well it's paid —
and whether they need to or not. If Dolly has to
support herself, that means she's poor, and that's
enough for the guv 'nor. That's one of our wonder-
ful old family traditions, never to marry a girl with-
out money. No Olaive ever has. If I broke off and
married Dolly, we'd starve. The guv 'nor would see
to that"

"Couldn't she go on working, just at the sjtart, and
you get something to do in London! I should have
thought^ if you really — " Alec broke off, embar-
rassed by the reflection that if his father cut Mervyn
adrift, he would be the gainer.

"Botten arrangement. I couldn't let her work.
And the joke of it is that if we married and I got

128 BRUTE GODS

some rotten job in London we'd both be workm'
harder an' we'd both be worse off« Lookin' after a
house or a flat without a servant would be harder for
her than what she's doin', and she'd be worse paid
for it. How damn silly I You don't think of these |

things till you're up against them and th^i you
wonder why in hell people put up with such bloody
foolishness."

'' Perhaps the Bat might help you. He may be
annoyed with the guv'nor over this gate business — "

**You know — it's one of those things one's sup-
posed not to talk about, of course — but what's the
use of always goin' on not sayin', when it's truet
Fact is the old man's keen on Nita himself. I've
known that a long time. Any one can see by the
look in his eyes and the way he kisses her — "

''Good €k)d, the old beast!" Alec flushed with
bitter indignation. He saw his father, winning the
Factory crowd over, play-acting with his * 'great
grief" and '* personal loss" — ^making copy.

''Nita knows it too. Somehow I don't think she
minds, not really. She seems to— it was partly that
that put me off, to start with — ^that in a way she — ,

well, she almost plays up to him. You know how a
girl can. Not that she cares twopence about him
in that way, she doesn't, I know, but — We've never
spoken of it» of course, and don't you, do you heart"

*'I wish he'd diel"

'*You see, what he wants is to have her about —
son's wife — ^in the family — callin' her his daughter,
and that sort of fake, an' bein' able to kiss her.

CONFUSIONS 129

That's the kind of thing a man seems to want when
he's gettin' too old for— He wants it all mixed
up with a whole lot of fake an' bluff. I tell you,
IVe watdied the guv 'nor a bit. He's been a bit
suspicious lately, guesses there's something up.
That's why he wants me to chuck Oxford so as to
get married this autumn. Says he finds the work
too much for him an' wants me here. Wants to fit
up the cottage for Nita an' me — oh, Lordl In a
couple of months we'd be married — "

^'Christ I" Alec watched his brother's miserable
and frightened face. ''And they gave you the
D.S.O. for being brave !" He had never seen Mervyn
look so weakened, so helpless.

''Look here!" The young man stirred nervously
in his chair. "It isn't only the guv'nor. I must
think of Nita, there's been all these years, it'd be
deuced unfair, after all it would be a dishonourable
sort of thing, breaking your word, I don't believe the
guv'nor would break his word, not like that, anyhow.
It'd be awfully hard luck ; a girl has some pride. You
see, if a chap has had an understanding with a girl
for five years an' very likely spoiled her chance of
marryin' any one else — ^hang it all, it isn't the right
thing, whatever way you look at it. I've got to take
my medicine, that's all about it — ^matter of honour.
You have to sacrifice everything when it's a matter
of honour — ^let it all go — always have to — devil of a
sacrifice — still — "

^e two repeated words arrested Alec. "Sacri-
fice." "Honour." The phrase Matcham had given

180 BRUTE GODS

him — ''Brute gods'' — beat his remembrance sting-
ingly. It was a phrase that baffled his understanding,
vivified his emotion. It meant much more to him
than it meant to Matcham, but meant it far more
vaguely. Could honour make a brute demand t Was
r this honour of Mervyn 's really honour t Constancy —

fidelity— dogs were f aithfuL

"Look here, would itr—oh, damn honour I — ^would
it be fair to Nita for you to marry her now t Couldn't
you go and tell her the whole thing t It would be
the truth, anyhow."

''It would be the same as chucking her. It's the
kind of thing a man can't do."

"You're as important as she is— your happiness
is."

"Well, but — You see, after all that there's been.
There's been such a devil of a lot You can't wipe
that out. After I've said that no other girl could
ever make the smallest difference to me, an' she said
she'd marry me just the same, an' want to, even if
I were smashed up for life or blinded — ^I'd feel such
an awful worm." He got up trembling, and walked
away to the window. "She'd have done it, too," he
said, so low that Alec could hardly hear him. "Why
the devil didn't I get a bullet through my head out
there!"

"Oh, I say, Mervyn, you simply can't T^

Alec was keenly touched: he started to go over to
his brother, but shyness thwarted his sympathy, and
he held back. He stood, pondering on this fresh
instance of the association, the alliance of his father

CONFUSIONS 181

with the gods of the world. The world was for his
father against his stepmother, just as it would be for
him against Mervyn. Mervyn had first talked of the
guy'nor, then he had talked of honour and those
other things that were against him on the guv 'nor 's
side. The winning side! Alec remembered how
Matcham's meeting had ended. ... He looked across
to Mervyn, he must persuade him somehow; that
mustn't always be the winning side. Mervyn, catch-
ing his brother's glance, tried to pull himself together,
jerked his head back stifiSy, then turned away, stam-
mered "Oh, damn," and sat heavily down by the
window, hunched up, his flaxen head between his
hands. He looked done for, worse than collapsed.
Alec could understand well enough Mervyn 's wanting
not to marry Nita, but he was puzzled by his wanting
to marry Dolly Drake. The thing was dead serious,
any one could see, and Mervyn wasn't the sort of chap
who^ thought he was in love when he wasn't, and made
a lot of it. That fellow Williams might be that sort :
well, he'd better look out if he tried any nonsense
on with the Mater! But Mervyn — ^he'd never even
flirted with any one since he got engaged. What a
damned shame!

"Look here, I say." Alec took two or three steps
nearer his brother. "Don't you do it, don't be a fool.
It'd be— it'd be simply heU."

"Oh, what's the oddst I'd get hell from the guv'-
nor if I backed out, and after all he'd be right, in a
way he would, and they'd all say he was."

"No, you wouldn't — ^I promise you you wouldn't —

>>

182 BRUTE GODS

' ' You t What could you do » ' '

'*! could— you Tl see—"

Alec thought: "I could kill him, why nott"
Flashes shot in his brain, he stood leaning over to
Mervyn, breathing hard, with an excited sense of
power. He could be stronger than Mervyn, he felt
quite sure he could. Mervyn was weak in some ways,
always had been, he would give in unexpectedly,
suddenly: how often he'd say: *'0h, what's the
oddst" or *'Well, let it go, then." He'd never be
able to stand up to their father, not in anything like
this. Alec must back him to the limitb

*' Anyhow," he went on, *'if the guv 'nor cuts you
oflf. 111 give you your share. I swear that, word of
honour — "

''Honour," again, he thought. And of course he'd
be bound, having said that. But that was different.
He was impatient of his reflections.

''Awfully decent of you. Thanks. All the same,
the guv 'nor will probably live till we're both about
forty."

— ^Kill him — ^Alec thought again — ^why nott
"Doesn't matter. 111 get money, I can make
him—"

What good would Father Collett's way dot he
argued with himself. Just leaving it all, what would
be the good of thatf — ^leaving it, and thinking of
nothing but your own blooming soul ! And what good
would there be in any other way, except — t Joe
Matcham was right about compromise, that fool Perry
was wrong. Matcham knew you had to have violence

it

CONFUSIONS 188

— the only thing to smash these brute gods, as he
called them. Of course it was I You only had to
look at the two men to see that Matcham was a fine
sort of chap and Perry a sneak.

"I^ manage the guv'nor all right/' the boy in-
sisted. — ^If only he could get Mervyn on his feet!
That stmck-down look he had. . . .

"Well, m tell the old man.'' Mervyn half turned.
"Won't be any good. Still, he might put his foot
in it, somehow — ^help me without knowing it, with-
out meaning to. Just a chance."

You won't give in to him, will yout"
Oh, shut up." Mervyn relieved his dejection by
becoming nervously annoyed. "Do you think I don't
want to get out of itf If only I can, but I know I
can't, still there might be some way. Oh, I'm talkin'
rot!" He got up. "See that handkerchief!" He
spoke with a mingling of shyness and bravado. "She
threw it back to me. Some one came in, I thought it
was Nita, but it was only one of the servants. She
threw it back to me from her lap. It was the way
she did it — so quickly — seemed to mean such a lot,
somehow, seemed to make a sort of comer for us and
showed she cared for me, her doin' it like that.
Dropped from my sleeve, an' I'd left it when I heard
somebody outside by the door. And she said, in
quite a natural voice: ^Oh, I forgot you don't like
being called Lieutenant Olaive.' As if that was
the sort of thing we'd been sayin'. — ^Does make a
difference, you know, when you have to be careful
an' not let any one find out. Makes everything worth

184 BRUTE GODS

80 much more^ makes it so exciting. With Nita, of
course — Funny thing, what a lot her throwin' that
handkerchief back like that seemed to mean — ''

He paused, while Alec reflected that it probably
meant she was used to doing it.

"She's got brown hair — ^and her eyes — ^it's her
colour, too. If only she hadn't looked so beastly well
the first time I met her, an' so different to Nita. It
was that that did it."

"Yes, Nita's fair, and I suppose she isn't awfully
strong. ' '

"Nita's jolly pretty. I know she is. But Dolly's
something else — I can't — Oh, I'm hit and hit
badly, an' what's the use of taUdn'f I'm taUdn'
like an ass. I'm only fit to go to bed, I'm all done
in. — What were you up to this afternoon, away all
that timef"

"Oh, I was with Prippie Clark."

"Christ you were I" Mervyn laughed raggedly.
"That's all right, eht You were with Prippie, and
I was — What a pair of rotters I What a bleedin'
family I Good-night, after that ! ' '

Alec, as Mervyn left him, vindictively resisted
the application of these phrases. It wasn't they who
were rotters, it was the way everjrthing went that
was rotten. His rebellious hatred struck further
down. Let his father try to stop Mervyn : he wouldn't
forgive him that, or anything else, either I He'd
hit back, he'd hit hard.

Alec's sense of the world's wrongness and his sense
of his father's wrongness were in clouded blend: he

CONFUSIONS 186

saw his father's evil drawn out and spread over the
general surface, but never, for all its radiation, clear
of its personal known character. The evil concentred
the more vividly for its expansion, and his father
stood out, with a deepened blackness, as a symbolic
mark for attack. The man was there, the man he
knew; he could be reached. The personal stroke
would grow for wide range to a stroke against what
his father belonged to and what belonged to him,
what held rule everywhere, discolouring, spoiling,
preventing. . . . Brute gods and the sacrifices of
their priests and victims — ^he was in battle against all
that in his father, starting from his father. ... He'd
show that he was in the fight.

CHAPTER X

MB. GLAIVE, next morning, read the family
Prayers in high feather. His **When the
wicked man tumeth away from his wicked-
ness" was jaunty, and the Doxology, which he had
read the morning before as though it were the most
horrid curse in the language, was friendly and genial :
'' 'World without end, Amen,' and all goes well with
us, doesn't itt" instead of ** 'World without end'
and be damned to all of you!" Glaive hardly ever
swore in words before his family; on the rare occar
sions when he inadvertently did, he pulled up at
once, frightfully upset by the compromise of himself,
of his position.

After Prayers he took Mervyn aside by the fire-
place. "Telegram from Lord Yetminster," he told
him. " 'Follow your own counsel.' Sensible man."
He glanced at his bound-up knuckle. "Scars of war,
whatf" he commented, with a pleased chuckle.
"About that other matter, Mervyn." He looked
down his sharp little nose. "I've decided to make
no move. Dignified silence. Don't you think sof
Let 'em both go hang, eh t " Mervyn nodded. Glaive
looked up, catching Alec's sinister gaze. "What's
the matter f " He looked puzzled and annoyed for the

136

CONFUSIONS 187

moment, and at once reasserted himself to Mervyn,
in a louder voice, so that Alec and the aunt could
hear him: "Especially now, you understand, when
IVe — er — *won golden opinions from all sorts of
people.' '' He was always fertile in Shakespeare
quotations. ** 'Worn now in their newest gloss,' ''
he continued, with an emphasis of relish on the last
word,

Mervyn nodded again, and handed him a stuffed
envelope. *' Meant to have given you these before,"
he said.

*'0h. Bills.''

Glaive's eyes darted. He took the envelope and
sat down at his place. The aunt sat, too, with an
invalid air. Alec and Mervyn remained standing,
at opposite sides of the table.

*' Lucky for you I've been a careful man." He
turned the bills over. Mervyn had put the smaller
ones at the top. "By Jove I" The man looked up
with a jerk. "Young rascal. Ginnis & Cottrell,
thirty-nine pound eight. You do go it." He paused,
and his expression relaxed. "I don't suppose young
Aldborough has run up much more with them. Very
old firm, used to deal with them m3rself . What my
father would have said to thirty-nine pound eight
at a wine and tobacco merchant's. Of course I'm
not legally responsible for this, that's why as a gentle-
man I have to pay it before any of the others. Ginnis
& Cottrell know that, the dogs! They know the
name. — Hammerton's, tailors, twenty-seven odd.
Any more of these thumpers, eh!" Mervyn, in great

188 BRUTE GODS

satisfaction at having taken what was so evidently
the right moment, winked at Alec who did not re-
spond. ^'At Cambridge they don't let them run np
bills over a fiver, have to send them in to the tutor.
How would you like thatf There's a middleclass ele-
ment about Cambridge, and it's been getting worse
and worse."

Aunt Cathy, reading one of her letters, gave an ex-
damation.

''What is the matter, Catherine f Do give me
some coffee. Well." He stuffed the bills back, and
held the envelope up over his shoulder for Mervyn.
"Ill write you a cheque for a hundred after break-
fast Remind me. It's not a precedent, mind."

''Thanks awfully."

A hundred pounds was considerably more than
Mervyn had expected, even under these propitious
conditions. He had not gauged the strength of his
father's vanity and snobbery in wrestle with his
meanness.

''Pay it into your Bank, then write your own
cheques for these fellows. Qinnis & Cottrell first,
mind. — ^Much better way. I can 't be bothered writing
cheques for all of them separately. Too many im-
portant things to be seen to, and besides I'm not a
clerk." Glaive was getting his money's worth. He
thought of how he would tell Lord Yetminster and
other people. But perhaps Mervyn 's extravagance
might alarm Dr. Besine. ' ' Time you settled down and
married Nita," he went on with a jocular manner.
"I'd much raider be writing cheques for fitting out

CONFUSIONS 189

the cottage. Let's have a talk about that after break-
fasty my boy. About your going back to Oxford. I
want to put the thing to you— man to man. You
see, you went up very late, because of the war ; really
you're too old for an undergraduate. And degrees
don't matter, you know, unless you're going in for
the Church or teaching — "

''I'm worried about dear Effie," the aunt remarked
mournfully.

''You're an Oxford man just the same. In my
day no man of family ever took a degree."

"Is Cousin Effie illf" Alec asked, struggling from
this running course of his father's self-expression.

"Oh, she says she's taking care of herself.**

"Let's see." Mr. Glaive took the letter. "Why,
she says she's nearly well I What do you meanf"

" 'Nearly well'— ah, yes." The lady sighed.
" 'Nearly well,' " she repeated, shaking her head.
"But she wouldn't say she was taking care of her-
self if it wasn't something serious."

" Oh, nonsense I "

Mr. Glaive, annoyed by the familiarity of that kind
of observation from his sister, applied himself to his
plate and showed his displeasure by silence. Alec
was relieved of the galling pressure of his father's
talk. He thought of the yesterday's breakfast: how
different, what a lot had happened to him since.
That giggling fit ... he'd never be like that again.
He couldn't possibly — As they all sat, eating and
silent, bent from habit to Glaive's lead, the boy,
saving himself instinctively from other more disturb-

140 BRUTE GODS

ing and dangerous meditations^ began thinking about
his aunt. Why was she like Hiatf

Mrs. Mowry had always been ill pleased by serenity
and contentment round about her: agitations, lesser
troubles and alarms, were the nurturing food of her
spirit. A continuous series of such fears or worries
she had always contrived for the satisfaction of her
needs. Self-protectively, the widow had acquired
fertility of invention, or her restlessness in ennui
would have driven her melancholy-mad. She might
have stagnated in a dreadful chronic depression with-
out the kind of excitements and sensations she could
make for herself. That these excitements were
coloured unkindly and forbiddingly was blame to the
malice of the sex-disappointment and the sex-thwart-
ing that worked in her. She was thought spiteful,
malevolent, a would-be mischief-maker, generally
troublesome and ill-natured. As she was ; but her re-
pellent qualities were so evidently imposed on her
by unhappy and unnatural conditions of life that only
the shallow or heartless could have condemned her or
not pitied. She wanted to be thought ''temper-
amental," difficult but interesting; she wanted people
to give her serious thought, to be put about by her
and put out, to the end of the showing of herself as
a person of some consequence and appeal : but she only
succeeded in being voted a nuisance and ignored. She
had made herself as touchy as a proletarian or an
Irishman or an American, but her touchiness could
not prick the English comfort of her relatives and
neighbours, it could only prick her. It was in vain

CONFUSIONS 141

that she was a mistress of the art of being offended.
Yet she went on, thanklessly being thin-skinned. She
had been diverted even from the delightful stir of her
sister-in-law's elopement by reflections, voiced to the
deaf ears of Mr. Glaive and Mervyn, on her not hav-
ing been invited somewhere, on her having been passed
by somebody or other without recognition in the
Malstowe High Street. Equally, she was thanklessly
vicious. It was true that she sometimes did make her
brother violent and angry, but only when he wanted
an excuse for being so, as she knew: and the knowl-
edge took away all her pleasure. Besides, his violence
and rank rudeness frightened her; she had to stop
then. The boys took no notice of her, beyond a mild
and casual irritation. She sadly lacked a husband.
Her only real intimate was an old village woman to
whom she was ''kind" in the way of small gifts
of food and money, for the sake of the moral prestige
of it, for the sake of the idea that it gave her of
herself. The old woman was shrewd: she repaid
Mrs. Mowry's alms and insured them for the future
by telling her of unpleasant things that had been hap-
pening to neighbours, or by inventing things of the
sort, in case of need. And she would cunningly
water the widow's morbid ingrowth of suspicion.

The thoughts that Alec had of his Aunt Cathy
went within the circle drawn by the urgency of his
present experience and emotion. These he found
working toward some revision of his old feeling about
her; he began to look at her from new perspectives.
Before, he had fallen in with Mervyn 's contempt:

142 BRUTE GODS

or, Aunt Cathy was there for him as something un-
necessary and distasteful, like a cold hot-water bag
that you needn't trouble much about so long as you
kept it out of the way and could forget that it was
there. Now, she had an importance, as being dis-
liked and put down by his father. Alec reflected that
she had been living with his father longer than he
had ; her husband had died when Mervyn was a baby
— Skilled in an accident on the honeymoon. Aunt
Cathy must have been quite young then. — ^All that
time she had been with his father, more than twenty
years. Of course that was why she was disagreeable
and unhappy — ^no wonder. Alec was surprised at
himself for never having thought of that before: his
father had been a brute to her as weU, of course,
he must have been, in lots of ways, not only the ways
you could see. Same as with all of l^em — same as
with the Mater and his own mother — ^there must have
been lots you couldn't see, all along. There must
be any amount he didn't know about Aunt Cathy.
He glanced at her drained dissatisfied face with its
dried-in lines, her resentful tightened mouth, her un-
quiet washed-out eyes with their air of expectation
of affront from ambush. Not her fault For the
first time in his life he was sorry for her, for the
first time he wanted to say something that she would
like him to say. Cousin Effie— she was always try-
ing to talk about Cousin Effie —

''Are they still living in that hotelf " he asked.

"Oh!"

The question was so unexpected, so unusual, that

CONFUSIONS 148

Aunt Cathy jtimpecL Mr. Olaive looked up quiddy
and disapproyiagly. ''I think 111 go to Wethering-
ham this week^" he said to Mervyn in a tone of
superior detachment.

**You mean Effie and Williamt" Mrs. Mowry
turned to her nephew, she laid down her knife and
fork. ^^Yes, they are. It's a great mistake,'' she
went on with thin positiveness. ^'A young married
oouple ought to be keeping house. I call it evading
one's responsibilities. EfSe says a home is so much
trouble. But other girls keep house when they get
married, other girls have to." She drew down her
lips.

"I wasn't aware, Catherine, that you had been
summoned as arbiter in Effie 's domestic affairs."

^'Oh, no. Of course I should never dream of try-
ing to interfere— in any way. Still, I must say —
It doesn't seem right to me. And there are no chil-
dren, either," she added, patently aggrieved, but
gathering herself back at once as though on the verge
of an indelicacy.

^'Do let us keep to matters of our own concern.
Our minds and lives are not so empty, I suppose, are
theyf" Mr. Glaive spoke with studied elocution.

' ' Effie seems such a very near relative— almost like
a daughter, to me/^ Mrs. Mowry tried to pause
noticeably. * *But of course, Sidney, I know — I under-
stand you very well. When our hearts are all so
full — I know I feel quite overwhelmed by it all,
stiU ; yesterday I was quite ill. These poor boys, ' ' she
whispered.

144 BRUTE GODS

''Really, Catherine, I see no useful purpose—"

"I was only thinking, if any other trouble were
to come on us, now. Lord Yetminster ivill stand by
you, Sidney, won^t het"

''Oh, a man has to take risks 1 Matters of that kind
are quite safely in my hands, Catherine, you should
know that by this time. I don't think I'm likely
to hang my head!" Alec gave him a bitter look.
"It's been one in the eye for that fellow Matcham,
he thought he had the strike all going, and now every
man's back at work, pleased as Punch! — ^I think we
might as well make holiday today and all go out in
the big car to Lowestoft or Felixstowe. Lord Yet-
minster won't be back till tomorrow. — ^What do you
say f " He looked round the table, secure in his clever-
ness and his generosity.

"I can't come," said Alec.

"Why can't yout"

"Oh, I have to go to Malstowe." The boy be-
thought him of Frippie's grapes.

"Well, we can run in there first — ^not much out
of the way." The father was indulgent

"I can't. I've lota of things to do."

"You know very well you haven't anything that's
important — ^how should yout Don't be a spoilsport,
Alec. You're always running oflf by yourself some-
where or other. What on earth did you do with
yourself all yesterday f You knew I wanted you back
at eleven."

"I went to Father Collett's and stayed to lunch."

"Oh, you were with Mr. CoUett"

CONFUSIONS 145

Glaive objected to a ''Protestant clergyman" call-
ing himself "Father/' as he had often told his
family, but he accepted Collett becanse he was of good
birth and well off, therefore entitled to eccentricities.
All things considered, he approved of this association
of Alec's, and he was mollified now by Alec's having
been at the Vicarage the day before. It seemed a
becoming and proper thing for the boy to have gone,
at such a time, to a spiritual adviser.

*'Well, I think you'd better come with us today,"
he added in a tone of pleasant decision.

"I'd rather not."

"Suit yourself, then," his father retorted diarply.
"You have liberty of action, as you know. Too much,
perhaps, but that has always been my method. You
will come, Mervynt"

"Oh, all right."

Alec looked reproachfully at his brother. Of
course he^A go, he thought. The guv 'nor could sign
cheques: what a beastly sort of arrangement it all
was! But how could Mervyn be expected to — He
didn't understand, he'd always do the easiest thing
and not trouble to think.

There were three shops where he could buy
Frippie's grapes: he'd go to them all to see which
had the best, the ones that looked most like Wilfred's.
Tomorrow morning he'd see her. If Aunt Cathy
knew that, she'd be tremendously worked up. That
sort of thing always seemed to fuss her frightfully
— ^more than anything else. Alec remembered some
occasions. How, when E£Se's little sister, their cousin

146 BRUTE GODS

Molly^ had been staying with them, she had drawn him
aside and told him, with a sort of secretive concern,
that she didn 't think he and Mervyn ought to take the
child on their knees or carry her about as they did.
^'Yon forget she's not really a UhU girl any more/'
she had said. '^It doesn't look nice,** She had
been quite anxious and upset. She spoke to Molly,
too, and Molly had repeated to the boys her aunt's
observation that ''You'll soon be a little womcm, dear
Molly; you're getting a big girl now, you know."
They had all laughed over that, then they had stopped
laughing, suddenly embarrassed. But Aunt Cathy
was difFerent from his father about these things, Alec
didn't feel that she was in the same way dangerously
against him, she never had mattered so much, and
she couldn't help it any more than she could help any-
thing else.

The boy again tried to think of something to say
to her, he wanted to make her acquaintance. It
would be worth while finding out. ... He looked up
at his father, who at once pulled his chair back. The
look was one he was not used to, it put him out. He
said grace in the tone of one who has just been con-
tradicted and can afford to be forbearing, knowing
himself in the right. Mrs. Mowry immediately left
the room, as though she had been driven from it
but knew how to preserve her dignity under the in-
sult ''I shall be back in about half-an-hour, Mer-
vyn," Mr Glaive remarked tolerantly. *'I see you
in the Study then." He clipped a cigar. **I have
to see to one or two little things in the village."

CONFUSIONS 147

Now was the time. This affair of Lord Yet-
minster's gate had most happily given him a shield,
it would be between him and public ridicule. Noth-
ing could have better repaired his pricked inflation.
It proved that he was '' taking the blow like a man.''
He could face people now, sustained hy this proof,
put in the right way by it. He went out for an
early gleaning of some of those protective '^golden
opinions" that he had won.

CHAPTER XI

UNLESS his father allowed him the extrava-
gance of taking out the two-seater car, Alec
usually walked when he went into Malstowe.
There was a motor-cycle belonging to Mervyn, but
Alec disliked the things. He also disliked using his
own '^push-bicycle/' but it was the less unpleasant
to him of the two, so this morning he decided to take
it. He felt in too much of a hurry to walk.

It was not long before his haste was curbed. He
had hardly ridden five minutes before the back tyre
punctured. The accident dismayed him: it seemed
like some wilfully malicious intervention between
him and an unknown important accomplishment. It
was like being held back in a bad dream. Alec was
slow and clumsy about repairing: it would probably,
he reflected, take him longer to mend the tyre than
to walk the rest of the way into Malstowe. If only
he had Wilfred Vail ! Wilfred would do it in a couple
of minutes.

He took the bicycle to the side of the road, and be-
gan stripping the tyre-cover. No, he couldn't go
wheeling the beastly thing into Malstowe. Strug-
gling with the cover, he heard the approach of a
motor: one of Lord Yetminster's, he saw as he looked
up. He raised his hat as it passed him. Lord Aid-
borough and Lady Barbara were in it, the young

US

CONFUSIONS 149

nobleman acknowledging the salute with a blank f ace,
his sister smiling as though she were content, Alec
thought, to have caught him at a disadvantage. He
wished he would catch Lady Barbara at a disadvan-
tage. He was '^our agent's son, mending his bicycle
on the road," that was what he was to these people.
Of course it was his father's ridiculous brag, his
Olaive pretensions, that made it hurt. ^' These
people" had brought about his father's triumph of
yesterday. * ' Curse them, I wish Matcham would get
them!" he mumbled. England a democracy! But
even if it were, the important things, the things that
clustered and festered in and round his father — ^they
might most of them stay just the same. You couldn't
trust Matcham after what he'd said at the end of that
speech* All the worst of these ''brute gods" would
be left. Alec's mind remained vague here, but he
clung to the phrase: it eased his rebellious indigna-
tion.

He had been working on the tyre for several im-
patient and exasperated minutes when he remem-
bered that he had hardly any money — ^not enough to
buy the grapes. He had been so reluctant to ask his
father for money that morning that he had forgotten.
Asking for it would have been putting himself in the
same box with Mervyn: curse it, of course he was
just like Mervyn in that way — dependent. Would
Mervyn just keep on, in his slack way t Couldn 't he
make Mervyn seef Alec wondered how he himself
could have managed to live ''all these years" without
seeing — putting up with everything all the time.

160 BRUTE GODS

Would Mervyn go and marry Nita after allf That
cheque for a hundred. If only he knew how to talk
to Mervyn, but he couldn't say things clearly even
to himself. . . . He'd have to have the grapes charged
to their account, he must get them. How beastly
it was! He was like a slave — his father's slave.
How could any one say that was right f If only his
father would die — ^he deserved to — ^it was what ought
to happen — ^kiU him. Alec's hand shook. Damn,
he'd never get that lyre on. There was another
motor car coming along, too. Not one of Lord Yet-
minster's this time, thank heaven. A girl driving —
oh, yes, Doreen Burke. Did she see him f She always
drove so beastly fast. He raised his hat, standing a
little out to the road, with his back to that con-
founded bi(^cle. The car slowed, then stopped a few
yards ahead of him. Miss Burke looked round, her
fair hair blowing under her tam-o'shanter.

*'Hulloa, Alec, d'you want a liftt"

He walked quickly up to her. He had remembered
Oillian CoUett Then he remembered. that Frippie
had said Doreen ''liked" him. He looked at her
fresh-coloured sensible broad not uncomely face with
new interest, but without any new attraction.

''Yes, thanks, I tvoidd. My bicycle punctured."

"Gteing to leave it in the hedge f Won't it get
stolenf " She wanted to take him with her, but she
made difficulties.

' ' Oh, no, not with the tyre off. ' ' Alec looked back
at the maimed thing, sprawled up against the hedge,
its wheel up in an awkward exposure like the leg

CONFUSIONS 151

of a horse dead on its back— helpless, eloquent of the
pathos of negleet. ''I don't care if it is stolen. '' He
opened the door and got on to the seat beside her.

''Do you want to drivef " She was thinking that
she wonld like the changing of places with him, her
being in the seat he had left, and he in hers.

*'0h, no; when you drive so much better.'' Sup-
pose Frippie should see themf he thought: and why
had Doreen told Frippie that Jesus loved her f

''I suppose youll soon be going up to Oxford!"
Doreen Burke wondered if she should ask him to the
picnic-lunch they were having that day near Mal-
stowe.

''Oh, not yet. Not for about two months." Those
grapes — ^he would get them the first thing.

"Youll be up one year at least with your brother.
That'll be jolly for you both, won't itt" Alec's
hair, she was thinking, was much nicer than Mer-
vyn's. Mervyn's was too light — ^like a doll's. Alec
had rich hair—- the sort of colour you saw in pictures.
She began to drive more slowly.

"Yes, the war made him late going up, of course — "

"What have you got on for todayf " If she asked
him, would he gof

"Oh, nothing. Doing one or two things in Mal-
stowe, that's all."

"I suppose you woiddn't — " The girl hesitated.
He never had cared for "gomg to things," he was al-
most as bad as his friend Wilfred Vail. What was
the good of asking himf Anyhow, he mightn't like
to go so soon after his stepmother — But he seemed

152 BRUTE GODS

difFerent that moming, and. . . . Well, if he ae-
ceptedy then she'd know! ''You wouldn't care to
join our picnic t ' ' she inquired diffidently.

''Oh, yes. Rather/' Alec again remembered
Gillian CoUett. "I'd like to."

"Good." She replied coldly, to make sure against
self-betrayal. ' ' I was rather afraid it might bore you.
Just an 'anyhow' sort of affair — only thought of it
last night. We're going up by the Martello Tower.
I expect well play 'silly games.' "

' ' Oh, that 's all right Rather sport. ' '

Would the "foreign-looking girl with the untidy
hair and queer eyes" play the silly games too!
Alec knew those games, so popular just then among
the "young people" of his neighbourhood. They
chose on occasion to take up with the amusements of
their juniors, they liked doing that by conscious choice.
Boys and girls of from eighteen to twenty-five would
gather together and play catch-as-catch-can, hunt-the-
slipper, "compliments," with agreeable licence to be
as noisy and as free as they liked. "Silly games" or
"kid games" was the local term: there was great
variety of tiiem, outdoor and indoor. Alec himself
had hardly ever played ; he had been too shy, and his
physical energy didHot naturally go that way.

"Will you play in the Tower or outside!" They
had been driving in silence for a minute or so.

"Outside, I expect. It's such a fine day."

"Oh."

Alec had been hoping that they would play in the
Tower. It would be easier for him, somehow, indoors.

CONFUSIONS 158

— ^He must find put something about that girl, though
he didn't much like asking. Gillian — How queer
it seemed putting a girl's Christian name before
Father Collett's! Of course it was her being a niece
of his that made one want to see what she was like.

''I suppose your friend is comingf "

''What friendt"

**Why, the one who's staying with you. The one
who 's a niece of Father Collett 's. I haven 't met her, ' '
he added hurriedly, protecting himself from embar-
rassment.

''Yes, shell be there, of course. I'm picking her
up in Malstowe." Doreen reflected that Gillian was
much older than she was.

"Father Collett says she's awfully — ^I don't know
— views about things. He seemed a bit afraid of her,
in a way."

"Oh, well, sometimes she is — I call her 'my
trial'!" Doreen laughed. She knew she had to be
careful in talking to Alec about another girl.
"Clergymen's relations often are like that, you
know," she added in extenuation.

"Like what, do you meanf"

' ' Oh — Well, she certainly does say the most aw-
ful things! But of course she's quite all right,
really — " Doreen was in difSculties. "Her bark's
worse than her bite. I suppose it amuses her."

"But what kind of things does she sayf" They
were in the outskirts of Malstowe : Alec began to be
excited.

"Oh — ^you know. Things that are supposed to

154 BRUTE GODS

ahock you. I don't mind, ahe doesn't get any rise
out of mel" Would Alee think Gillian pretlyt

''Will any of the Besines be theret" Alec's
thoughts went to Dolly Drake.

''Nita's in Ipswich for the day. I expect that
consin of hers will oraie."

Alec looked at the girl. Evidently she disapproved
of Dolly. She'd disapprove more if she knew about
that handkerchief. He could tell, looking at whole-
some fresh-faced Miss Burke, just what she would
think of little Dolly's conduct — ^what she did think
of his stepmother's, too. Would they aU of them be
for his father, wasn't there a single one — f Alec
saw Matcham and Jos Clark and Aunt Cathy and
Doreen Burke, all leaping to join hands together.
Father CoUett, of course, wasn't on any side, he
wouldn't help for or against: but if he were Alec,
he wouldn't be able to keep out of it like that. What
would this Gillian CoUett thinkt He wanted to
know about her. At least she couldn't be like the
others. Faced curtly by the antagonism that Society
brought — and so unanimously — ^to his father's aid,
the boy experienced what some might have termed a
''hardening of heart'' The new boldness, the new
unscrupulousness out toward which he had been break-
ing, began to set in lines that were more determined
and conscious and cold. He'd take every advantage
he could get, anything would be fair with so many
against him. He'd look round — ^practise his strength.
The boy felt freed, he was put on a new mettle. If
he made up his mind not to miss any chance. • • •

CONFUSIONS 156

''Are you thinking about your examsf" Doreen
asked gaily. She was pleased by his abstraction^ and
then by the way he answered her: "Oh, not^^ He
spoke emphatieiUly and, she thought, with meaning.

''Well, here we are.'' Doreen slowed down to a
stop outside a stationer's in the High Street. "She
went in here.''

DISCLOSURES

CHAPTEB Xn

A'*PURB LOVE'' is one of our reaKties; but
the cries of poetic and moral rapture
which this emotional state provokes have
perhaps unduly shouted down prose comment on it
Alec fully satisfied romantic convention by the draw-
ing out of his whole conscious being to this stranger
girl: sense and spirit were so equally committed to
the strong interlocking flow that flesh-desire^ poeti-
cally in that tide-driven union, lost usual aspects for
recognition. Mated under the new stress with these
other stirrings, it took disguise, to the usual complete
complacency of Nature who knows her ends sure,
and the usual complete hoodwinking of her unknow-
ing instrument. There was, with Alec, no such local-
izing of emotion as might give room to ribald sneer:
and if he had been informed of the identity of the
essential control of his condition with those old known
forces of assault in shame and pleasure he would have
given the lie, convinced and horrified. Even in his
aflFair with Frippie, he would have resented such an
association.

He also complied with romantic convention by
"falling in love at first sight ;'' but not because he and
Gillian Collett were of i^mpathies that had to rush
together and cleave. It was not that their two selves
had bee ncomplementary halves in separation, and

169

160 BRUTE GODS

that now the sense of a perfect whole beat instant pulse
toward nlfihnent. The boy was at once in love because
those recent motive hours of his had driven him swift
to a point where such an emotional reaction had to be,
on protective instinct: and he was subject to Nature's
assertion of protest against a wrong weighting of his
scale by hate and rebellion at a time when her mating
urge had special claim on him. The intensity of
feeling that had been roused in him she took and used
for herself, moidding accident to her will. With the
girl Frippie he could struggle only abortively in the
way meant for him, he could not be turned whole-
heartedly by her, familiar to his old simplicities and
unawakenedness as she was, involved for him in a
sensual impulse too light, too mere, too naive.
Nature's waste use of that impulse was a means, a
step on: for the boy could now be drawn in deeper
devotion, in surer exaltation, supported by the con-
trast of a desire so slight and raw and meagre and
formless in its lack of the mystical interfusions of
love. The village girl had not only been too simply
female for Alec, she had been too young for him.
Gillian CoUett's maturer years gave her natural ad-
vantage of power over the boy's adolescence: not only
her older mind, but her older looks, the very curves
and lines of her face that denoted growth from young
girlhood, impressed him to her service. It was her
being so well a woman that brought him on to the
sacrificial absorption in a new sex-humility l^at he
found a miracle of ecstasy most of all.
He was breathless when he saw her, but not shy.

DISCLOSURES 161

The girl overcame shyness, as she overcame him. It
was her eyes in which he was caught at the first
moment, eyes that were bright and conrageoos and
mocking; yet, as Mervyn had said, they were like
Father CoUett's^ they were live and afSrmative like
his. But they were not large, as his were, and instead
of sloe-black, the colour was a pale elusive brown,
with active iridescence sometimes showing light of
green. She gave Alec quick uncertain almost childish
looks, looks with shimmering edges, in contrast with
the grown character that was so well determined in
her face. His vision of her swam. There was a con-
fusion in his sense of her dark hair that Mervyn had
thought untidy for its being loosely caught and stray-
ing a little about her ears and neck: all the boy's
perceptions of her were broken and mixed in. The
wilful and liberal mouth, in rein, it seemed, from the
dear-drawn nose and full brow, the faint and foreign
flush of the olive tint which by English complexions
showed the colour of some unbdieved-in flower, the
startling slightness of figure, the body like the crack
of a whip — none of these was separate to the boy, all
was herself.

Doreen Burke, who had become nothing, stood be-
tween Alec and Gillian, uttering words of which the
sound struck him with a purely physical impact; nor
did he take the meaning of Gillian's words in answer.
The perception of her voice was with him, in blend,
and particularly in blend with his sense of her eyes :
for the voice, too, had edges that seemed to shimmer
and break, the tones went in ripples, unexpectedly

162 BRUTE GODS

changing and shortening and stilling and taming off.
She spoke with jnst the qnickness of her glance, with
the same baffling conflict of uncertainty and affirma-
tion. Doreen, critical of her at this moment, thought
her nervoos and assertive and curt Fresh Doreen,
with her common Saxon goldishness of hair, her blue
and nsnal ^es, her frank nnvarying face, her look
of having been bnilt honestly and well, gave Oillian
an emphasis none the less impressive to the boy be-
cause its cause eBcai>ed him.

They went out to the car. Alec wanted to speak;
he was urgent for the gain of some sort of inter-
change, something that might relate him to the girl.
She had hardly said a word to him: he had stood by.
She seemed scarcely to have noticed him, why should
shet It would be enough just to be able to know
her, a little, he thought. To be able to please her
— somehow. Anything, so long as he was not left
altogether outside. He opened the door to the front
of the car for them, in silence.

**0h, no," said Doreen, *'you'd better drive. Alec."

** 'Alec't" Oillian 's repetition of his name made
his blood mn^ and Doreen looked at him uneasily.
**Then you're the— the friend of my uncle's." She
had been going to say: ''the boy my uncle's been
telling me about," but she reflected that he might
not like being called a boy or having been talked of.

''Yes." He looked straight at her, in courage at
the mention of a name that was intimate for them
both.

"Oh, I didn't realize—" She broke off, recalling

DISCLOSURES 168

what her unele had said to her, how aiudous he had
evidentlj been that she shouldn't — She langhed.

''What's the matter, why don't we get int" said
Doreen, betraying resentment. Then, to show that she
was not jealonSy she suggested that she drive, and
Alec and Gillian sit behind. ''I know the car better,
of course."

''What am I to do with this nice-looking babet"
Gillian thought Boys of that age were so awkward
to deal with, nnless they were very bold or utterly
uninteresting. This "Alec" wasn't uninteresting, he
couldn't be that, with those very deep eyes. She
didn't think he would be bold. . . .

"Why haven't I met you beforet" she asked him.

"I don't know — " He hesitated; what a silly way
to answer I "I didn't know," he went on, and then,
with forced resolve, to defy his difBiculty: "No one
ever told me you'd even been down here before!"

"I haven't, often. I was here last April, though."
She wanted to be kind to him, but was at a loss almost
as palpable as his.

"Oh, I was away at school then."

Alec felt a certain pleasure in thus admitting to
her what he felt as the disability and inferiority of
his youth. He reached intuitively for the role of page
to Gillian, withheld by pride as well as by fear from
the daring, even in thought, of being her lover.

"And then I took Doreen to San Sebastian."
Gillian sat sideways in the comer of the seat, observ-
ing the boy in scattered glances. — ^He must have met
Carlyon-Williams : what did he think of him t had he

164 BRUTE GODS

felt that affair very mucht ''Now I'm almost always
in London. Are you often theref

The enriosity that had prompted the following on
of that (luestion was at once satisfied by Alec's re-
sponse.

''Yes," he said, throbbing with the suppression of
his excitement "I mean, not so often before, but
now I'm going up to Oxford I shall be."

The girl looked away and bit her lip. She would
have had to have been very much duller of observa-
tion to miss the relation to her of the wondering devo-
tion in his eyes. He was a nice boy, really, no wonder
Uncle Leonard liked him, but what was she to dot
That vivid colour and his auburn hair — of course
that meant he was "susceptible." A susceptible
boy--calf-love. But she wasn't a calf: if she had
been seventeen, now ! Oillian remonstrated with this
accident. Doreen liked him, there waa that, toa
Now she supposed she would either have to snub him
or encourage him. But it was rather brutal to snub
any one who would evidently give you so little cause.
She thought of last April. . . . No one had ever looked
at her like that before. It was — ^actually it was a
little disturbing! How absurd I Well, if she en-
couraged him, he would get over it soon enough. They
drove on in silence, as Gillian tried to determine, with
the honesty that she prided herself on cultivating,
whether she would really like Alec to get over it so
soon. Her division of mind baffled honest conclusion :
though she soon became intellectually convinced that
it was her vanity that did not want him to draw out.

DISCLOSURES 166

and some sarvival of morality or sense of con-
venience that did not want him to stay drawn in. —
She mnstn't play with him, she really mnstn't —
especially after the Carlyon-Williams affair — ^thongh
titiere was a sort of temptation.

"What games do you want to play, Qillf Doreen
called out, not well pleased by their silence.

''Oh, an3rthing, so long as you have to run. And,
Doreen, I warn you, I shan't care what happens to
my hair."

**0h, nobody'll mind about that.*'

Gillian looked smiling at Alec. ''What do you
think, Mr. Glaive t" She retaliated on the ill nature
of Doreen 's remark.

"Oh, / shouldn't mindP'
'What wouldn't you mindt"
'Why — " He stopped and looked quite invol-
untarily pleading. "I mean what you were talking
about. I shouldn't mind if your hair came down."

"I never said it would come down! It might,
though — " She laughed. "If you're really pre-
pared for it!"

The car stopped, and Gillian opened the door with
a sharp impatient movement before Alec could reach
over to open it for her. He got quickly out, and she
barely touched the sleeve of his outstretched arm as
she followed. At once she attached herself to Doreen,
she began talking, as they walked towards the Tower,
about the arrangements for the day, where they would
have lunch, when the others might be expected. —
Why had she said that to him about her hairt she

166 BnUTB GODS

kept thinking; she hadn't meant to, but it was lead-
ing him on, it was playing. . . . Her uncle would
think she had done it on purpose, a usual female trick.
It had been Doreen's fault. Gillian felt ashamed of
herself, then she felt befooled, then defiant and deter-
mined, to no end, then insecure and reckless, as though
of danger — ^but what danger was there t — ^then she
was nervouslj buoyant. She laughed frequently, and
she several times put up her hand, impatiently de-
fensive, to her hair that the little quickening gusts
of the sea kept blowing and tangling about her fore-
head and her neck. It was trying and silly, how often
it crossed her mind that it was the first time any one
had ever looked at her like that — ^like this boy. . . •
She never gave Alec even a glance now, never spoke
to him except as it were through the medium of
Doreen. ''She doesn't like me," he thought; ''she
wants to get away from me." When the others came,
he would be kept more easily out, he would lose her
still more. His excitement in the suffering he had
from her touched the tightened sharp-tuned chords
of the upper register of his senses, gave him a strained
tremulously pointed acuteness in response that was
utterly unfamiliar, with its wavering twinges of
ecstasy and eager pain.

CHAPTER XIII

R. SIDNEY STARR GLAIVE'S good tern-
per did not last long. All that morning
his elation had gone ebbing, by noon it was
drained out. He had been qni^k to see tha^ his
achievement at Matcham's meeting was well dwarfed
by his domestic calamity, that people were not going
to let their pleasure in the latter event be spoiled by
any such modifying diversion of interest as his wish
had led him to expect. ''Well, he may have pulled
that off, but anyhow his wife ran away from him."
Adultery was infinitely more appealing to the public
mind than any strokes of local politics. Mr. Glaive's
nerves were sagging as he came back home from the
village. ''Dirty-minded people," he thought, calling
morality to his support as he remembered the sly
looks he had had. And when he had done his best —
done so well! It was most unfair. That scoundrel
"Williams! Both of them scoundrels. . . . "Dirty-
minded, malicious people." McGill, the lay-reader,
had met him in the road — ^intolerable bounder. These
intimations of their "regard"! Glaive knew well
enough that the only real regard McGill or any one
else had was regard for the horns on his head.

Dr. Resine's visit, breaking in on the very begin-
ning of the Study interview with Mervyn, made his

sense of failure wince again. The doctor had as-

167

168 BRUTE GODS

iociated himself with him, had talked of ''our chil-
dren.'' His maimer seemed impertinently to dis-
credit Glaive's monopoly of injury, to snggest that
Glaive, by some fault of his, had hurtfully involved
the Besines. ' ' How could you have been such a fool
as to let yourself in for thisY" was what Dr. Besine
hinted, and: ''Well, now it's done, we must help
you to make the best of a bad job." When a man
has been deeply wronged, for him to be treated as
a fool! And all the notice Resine had taken of the
gate affair was by some stupid casually shot in re-
mark about ''wigs on the Green!" There was no un-
friendly word between the two men, but the doctor
left after their brief colloquy with the impression
that "Glaive wasn't taking the thing well at all," and
Glaive himself, giving his impressive parting hand-
shake, was cut by discontent and irritation. His "old
friend" was not helping him, not standing by him as
he should.

The injured husband's first emotions had been
theatrical, now they were real. Now, he began for the
first time, really to miss his wife. When his nerves
were rasped he had always particularly needed her.
The dramatic excitement of her departure and of his
rush for London; his absence, and then the further
dramatic excitement of his speech on the Green, had
carried him over so far: now he realized as a fact
that if he called for her she would not come, if he
sent for her she would not be there. The astonishing
wickedness of her conduct came home to him with
a quite new force. She must be absolutely heartless

DISCLOSURES 16©

. . . who could ever have suspected thatt And he
was getting an old man. What could the law be about
to allow this — ^this crime against him t Why, the law
even allowed her to keep the money she had of her
own — all of it — ^monstrous ! If he'd run off with an-
other woman, he woidd have had to give Miriam
money: yet there were some fools who said that the
law was unfair to women! Of course he might get
damages out of Williams, but then he'd have to pay
for that, one way and another. . . . Mr. Olaive re-
membered that under certain ancient laws adultery
was punished by death. Too drastic for our day, of
course: he would not have wished that; it was his
natural nobility and generosity that prevented him
from wishing it. He would have liked a heavy
sentence of imprisonment, a sentence that could be re-
mitted at the husband's will. Surely that would be
fairt At least he would have had the opportunity,
by remission, of showing that he was noble and gen-
erous: as things were, who would know what he wasf
He was a fool to them all, a laughing-stock. — Yes, the
husband should have power to remit the penalty : then
the wife, in gratitude, would return to him — ^unless
she were lost to all sense of decency. Miriam surely
would. But would he take hert His thoughts of
imaginary situations played on, a little relieving him.
Would it be possible to take her back, after that man
. . . t Could his delicacy of feeling . . . t No, it
would never be the same, he would stiU be mocked.
Better that she should come back, and he be sternly
final, immoveably final, in his dismissal : greatly merci-

170 BRUTE GODS

ful in his reprieve of her ... on condition, of course,
that she should never return to that low black^ard.

Still, the loss would be there. She had so contrived
it that his loss was unescapeable. He wanted her, her
absence deprived and shocked him. All these five
years she had been to his hand, she was now habitual.
He had never regretted the marriage — ^never. It was
this that made it seem so unfair. And to think that
she, with those large truthful eyes, that gentle voice,
that loving mouth — all her sweet tenderness and
humility, as he had thought. . . . She had never
crossed him, hardly ever contradicted him. He could
see her: tall for a woman she had been — ^had been ! —
with ample lines of breast and figure ... a stronger
appeal than his first wife had ever had for him.
How could he get on with any content, any comfort,
without hert How could a man be expected not to
miss all that, to get used to having to do without so
mucht — To have to lie awake thinking of her with
that vile beast, that thief in the night. . . . Williams
was about twenty years younger than he, not much
over thirty. Miriam was thirty-one. How gross!
Mr. Glaive's eyes filled with angry tears.

How eaey it had been for her I He had slept alone
that night All she had to do was to get up when
every one was asleep, and leave the house. He had
kissed her good night in bed, and when he came in to
kiss her good mornings — ^a loving husband — she was
gone. A note left for him on her pillow. He had
known exactly what to do : prompt action was alwa3rs
his forte. In his dressing-gown he had gone and told

DISCLOSURES 171

Mervyn, calmly, briefly, holding np his head. He
had gone to his sister, he had said: ''Yon are now
the mistress of this house. It is for yon to inform
the servants — at once." Other men might have de-
layed weaMy, he had fronted the situation. — ^That
swine! Of course he had been waiting for her in a
car. Nothing could have been simpler for them both.
It was outrageous that such a thing should be so easy
and so safe. To get up at night, to go out, to get into
a car — ^that was all. She knew they were all sound
sleepers.

He must have been utterly blind. Of course other
people had seen what was going on ... of course.
This hadn't come from a clear sky for them, he could
see that. The way they took it ... he had been
the only blind one, because of his trust, his love.
To think that all these others had seen which way the
wind was blowing! For how long had he been a
figure of ridicide in the neighbourhood without know-
ing itf When he had thought he was making this
impression or that, they had really been laughing at
him up their sleeves, all that. time. Even Catherine
— ^it had not been the same astounding shock to her;
she must have suspected.

Mr. Glaive took the note from his breasti>ocket. It
stung him more sharply now, because self-pity held
him in closer grip.

' ' I am leaving you and going with Hugh C. W. He
will not conceal it in any way, neither shall I. If I
had told you and then gone, there would only have
been useless scenes, and I should not have changed

172 BRUTE GODS

my mind, so I am going in what seems to be the best
way. I have wished to leave you for a long time now,
he gave me the strength. You have never cared for
me except because of yourself, and you have no right
to keep me. The happiness of two people who love
one another is more than what you want. I am sorry
to leave the boys, but they have their lives before
them, an unhappy and weak stepmother would not
have done them much good.''

' ' She admits she is weak, ' ' he thought, wilfully mis-
reading. ''I suppose Williams wrote the letter for
her," he tried to sneer. ''If she had told me and
then gone. . . . She never would have dared!" He
yrsa furious at the charge that he had not cared for
her except for his own sake. No one else must ever
see that letter, should he destroy it t He locked it up
in his desk.

The drive to Lowestoft brought out new lines of
his loss. He had always liked being seen about with
so handsome a woman as his wife, he had liked it con-
sciously: the pleasurable response of his vanity had
never failed him. Now there was only Catherine.
Catherine! Nobody could be proud of being seen
about with her. Beally it had been a mistake his
persuading Catherine not to marry again. She was
no credit to a man's household, a silly tiresome woman
to have living with you, the irritation of her wasn't
worth the money that she'd — He had been punished
for his consideration of her interests in stopping that
marriage with an undesirable man. If you were a
good brother and a good husband, this was the sort

DISCLOSURES 178

of thing you got for it 1 And why wasn't Alec there t
The trip wouldn't have been such a fiasco with the
four of them. Alec was getting more selfish every
day — a selfish young cub. He would talk to him
when they got home; he must use his authority, he.
had always been too indulgent.

The depressed three of them finished '' making
holiday'' sooner than had been planned. They had
a late lunch in Lowestoft, then were walking unwill-
ingly down to the sea, when Mervyn, who had hardly
spoken a word, said suddenly: *'0h, why not motor
on to Yarmouth and go to a Beach Concert t ' ' Then
he laughed. Mr. Glaive thought he had never heard
so impertinent a laugh. ' ' If you think I 'm in a mood
for vulgar comic songs!" he snapped back at him.
He halted. "You know perfectly well my opinion of
Great Yarmouth: it is the vulgarest sea-side place
in England!" — ''Oh, I say, what price Margate!"
Mr. Glaive turned from his son to show his displeasure,
and they all three found themselves walking back to
the hotel where they had lunched. They started home
at once.

Alec, when they arrived, was not there. His
father's resentment stirred angrily. Now would have
been the time for his proposed family harangue, and
he could have given the boy a sound dressing down
first. It would have been a help to him, would have
eased him, doing that, and then making the digni-
fied and resolute address that he had planned. ' ^ The
subject in my household must now be regarded as
closed for good and all. ' ' That was how the address

174 BRUTE GODS

was to end. His rage sputtered out against Alec in
vicious little red sparks. The boy could go gadding
out, day after day, at a time like this . . . flagrant
. . . indecent. He was probably with some loose girl
or other. Mr. Glaive's eye had its tawny gleam.

There awaited him in his study a telegram and a
parcel. The telegram was from Lord Yetminster,
saying that he would be back that day instead of the
next, and could Mr. Glaive call on him that evening
after ninet This meant that unless Alec returned
very shortly the address must be postponed again.
Glaive would have to give time to considering the
right line to take with Lord Yetminster, he would
have to be quiet, think it over. That statement he
had made needed a little revision. If Miriam had
been there now, he would have consulted with her,
she had often been helpful in such things — feminine
tact There it was again! He was being reminded
at every turn, he would always keep on being re-
minded. . . . Then he must dress, that would take
time too. Mr. Glaive did not habitually dress for
dinner, but he liked Lord Yetminster and the Freyle
family to think that he did: besides, he felt at a dis-
advantage when other people were in evening dress
and he was not. Miriam would have straightened his
tie and selected his most appropriate shirt.

He looked at the parcel, which was addressed in
neat capital letters and had an obliterated postmark.
"Prom the library, I suppose." He was opening it
when Mervyn knocked at the study door to complete
the interview that Dr. Besine had interrupted.

CHAPTER XIV

ALEC returned a little before dinnertime; he
was in the haU as his father,, in evening
dress, came downstairs.

"Well, Alec, I want to speak to you.*'

*'0h!" The boy started. ''All right," he an-
swered absently.

The indifference of his tone rofBed Mr. Glaive more
than his former snllenness and hostile looks had done.
The man quickened his pace, he led the way to the
Study.

"I have to tell you quite plainly that your con-
duct these last days has been most inconsiderate and
unbecoming. Most selfish. Do you understand}"

"How do you meant"

"How do I meant'' Alec's dreamy look, his tone
of vague curiosity exasperated him. "I mean that I
am entitled to some consideration from you. Yester-
day you absent yourself for practically the whole day,
you say nothing to me about your intentions, you
think you can come and go as you please."

"You never told me I couldn't."

"No." Glaive was bitter. "You trade on my in-
dulgence. That is just it. I want you to under-
stand, quite clearly, that so long as you are under
age you are under my authority. You knew today

176

ii

176 BRUTE GODS

that I wished you to come with us to Lowestoft, didn't
yout"

''Oh, yes/'

Oh, yesM" Mr. Olaive mimicked him savagely.

That didn't matter, I suppose Y My wishes count
for nothing at all. You are becoming impossible. —
Are you going to sleep, sir, may I askt You didn't
want to go, so you didn't go, that's it, isn't it! Now
what are you grinning about t" Alec's remote smile
was the most infuriating thing of all.

"I didn't mean to. It wasn't at you." Alec
looked fixedly at his father, trying to realize that he
was there, exactly the same as he had been before.
. . . His irrelevance seemed grotesque.

"Now understand me. If your own sense of what
is and what is not decent conduct, decent considera-
tion, isn't sufficiently developed, it must be trained.
Or you'll go through the world a nuisance to yourself
and every one else. It's for your own good. Con-
sideration for others is the first article of a gentle-
man 's code. It's his starting point. Haven't I con-
sidered you all your life longY I've fed you and
clothed you and educated you, and all I expect in re-
turn is common decency of behaviour I Don't look
at me as though you were in the right ! I won't have
that impertinent staring." "Not even the grace to
hang his head," he thought. — ^"I've been too lax,
that's what it is. Now listen 1" He paused, and
noticed that the boy's eyes were queerly like his
mother's in the early days. With all her faults,
Awne would never. . . . His hurt revived. "To-

DISCLOSURES 177

morrow's Sunday. We go— all of na— to our pariflh
church for the morning service. I myself shall go to
the early service^ for Communion. You can go or
not go to the early service, as you choose. That is
your own affair, to be determined according to your in-
ward feelings. As you know, I should never dream
of dictating in so intimate and personal a matter
of conscience and your private state which you alone —
The Sacrament. . . . That is between you and— well,
you know. Mervyn is coming with me, and your aunt
Catherine. We all feel, under the conditions . • .
What I do insist upon is this.'' He squared himself
by the mantelpiece. ''That you come to the eleven
o'clock service. I shouldn't need to mention it, but
you have been irregular in your church attendance,
much too irr^ular. You've been getting into loose
slovenly habits all round, I've taken far too little
notice — "

''I can't go to the service tomorrow."

''What I I haven't rightly understood you."

"No, I can't."

They had both paled, but both were calm, though
with the father the calm was only momentary.

"You shaUl'^ he broke out in a cold convulsion of
anger. "You're up to some lewdness — meeting with
some low female. I will not be flouted I Understand
that definitely, finally. This ends it. I forbid you
to say another word." Alec left the room at once.

The father, alone, was assaulted by f aintness and
nausea. He turned, leaning heavily on the mantel-
shelf, and was confronted by the reflection of his age-

178 BBUTE GODS

ing face in the mirror. ''Grey hairs," he thoughti
''grey hairs. And this is how I am treated!" His
face was grey, too. Old — ^and he felt ilL Th^
would kill him . . . failing health. People wonld
say he was beginning to ' ' break up. ' ' He was divided
between self-pity and self-concern. That boy — to
make him feel ill — ^it was criminal. CriminaL
After all his kindness and generosity to them both.
He thought of the cheque he had given to Mervyn;
his parting with that hundred pounds began to hurt
him. "They trade on my affection for them, they
trade on it."

He sat down draggingly. Miriam could have
managed Alec, he would have handed him over to her
. . . no further trouble. Now there was only
Catherine — useless. If the obstinate young pup de-
fied him, what should he dof He passed his hand
over his forehead. This fresh aggravation, this fresh
difficulty — ^at such a time. One would have thought
that any son with a spark of filial feeling. . . • Yet
Alec, out of sheer self-will, could hit at him in this
way, hit at him when he was down. It was abomin-
able! Again his anger leapt. How could he be fit
for seeing Lord Yetminster, after thisf Feeling ilL
He wasn't up to it, he wouldn't go. Lord Yetminster
would understand. It would be natural, it would
really be the right thing for him not to go. He got
up and looked at himself again in the mirror. — Yes:
Lord Yetminster would see how deeply he had felt it.
Perhaps he had better go. Turning, he noticed with
intense irritation that Alec had not shut the door

DISCLOSURES 179

properly ; it was slightly ajar. The mixing in of this
familiar annoyance with Mr. Olaive's other emotions
was surprisingly exacerbating. He swore. Never in
any single point was he regarded. ''A man's foes
• . . those of his own household. ' ' Sighing deeply, he
sat down again. The quotation somewhat restored his
sense of his importance.

The dinner-bell rang and he heard the boys coming
downstairs; rude intrusions of sound upon him
through that negligently closed door. As he was
getting up to shut it, he heard Mervyn's lowered
voice: ''Oh, I say, I didn't ask the old man about
— ^what we talked about, you know. I meant to, but
I simply couldn't. You don't know what he was like
— the very worst. Simply awful. ' ' The voice trailed
off, and the listening father could not catch Alec's
reply. Secrets from him 1 Conspiracies gainst him
— ^no trust — everything that was mean and under-
hand. What had they been talking about behind his
backf He reflected vindictively that he would find
out: he'd know when Mervyn did ask him. His an-
swer wouldn't be one to please Mervyn, either, be
sure of that 1 For a boy to speak in such a way of
his own father ... his father who was suffering and
wronged, and had just given him a hundred pounds.
No feeling — ^the pair of them against him.

Sitting down on the chair by his desk he was irked
by a hard extrusive contact. . . . The parcel that had
come that afternoon. He had just untied the string
when Mervyn — ^he remembered. Now he would see
what it waSy they could wait for their dinner till he

180 BRUTE GODS

came. Why should he be the only one to be put outt
He unwrapped the parcel, and the book that was dis-
closed opened of itself in his hands. It was a
Babelais, with the leaves tamed down at the chapter
of Panurge's consultation in the doubtful matter of
cuckoldry.

CHAPTER XV

ALEC was not occupied by reflections on this
lull in his hatred of his father: this com-
plete and sudden diversion of his energy,
this instant obliteration and replacement of his ob-
jective, he did not even partially realize. The figures
of Matcham, Perry, Father Collett, Prippie, faded
out: she was there for him, she herself, none else.
He was no longer perplexedly concerned with ideas
about things in Life, with the uncertain troubling
suggestions that had risen out of the air of those
last two days. This girl who was so much for large
ideas, for spreading Causes and reconstructions, whose
whole pride was in thinking "we," not **I," had in a
moment narrowed Alec's arena to the personal, dyed
it with the personal deeply through, from confine to
confine. By the accidents of her hair and eyes, and
the make of her body. Nothing mattered to him now
except as it affected her for him, and him for her.
If the ''brute gods" left them alone, they could be or
not be: if his father kept out, he could be, or not.
Rebellion, revenge and hate wilted out of life, foreign
growths in a soil which was nothing for them. The
important thing was that his father should not stop
him here where his sole will lay: injury to his father
was of no moment, unless it would help Alec here,
and the boy would have done any benefit to his father

181

182 BRUTE GODS

or to any one else for the same end. It was thus that
the pure and absorbing passion of first love alchem-
ized wicked unfilial thoughts and intentions.

The boy, clutched by Life and reeling under Life's
tremendous yalues, could be grazed for two or three
slight moments by surprise at his father, even by pity
for him, for his worried vainly assertive buzzing on
through an existence that was not life at all, and
surely never could have been. His father could never
have known — ^never. And Mervyn — what a pity that
Mervyn could not know, either; that he could think
himself in love with that girl Dolly Drake. Alec
could have no enthusiasm now for his brother's rap-
port with Dolly or breach with Nita: both girls took
their places with Doreen Burke for added emphasis
of the uniqueness of Gillian. It could not matter
much which of the two Mervyn married, Mervyn who
was not in love. Dolly I who at (he picnic had been
flirting with somebody or other, more or less, when-
ever Alec noticed her, which was not very often. But
he had seen that her eyes were empty; and she was
coarse — coarsely built — ^yes, ** beastly well"; certainly
Mervyn was right about that. Mervyn — ^it was a
pity: he could not think of him much, he couldn^t
be awfully sorry — ^how could he! A boy of nine-
teen, suddenly upraised to a flaming isolation from
the entire universe, may well be enwrapped in his
miracle.

He did not hope that she loved him. Such a
miracle as that he could not reach to : the conception
of it went beyond lights it went rushing, into the void

DISCLOSURES 188

of black that lies nnoompassable beyond the light that
is last and brightest. To his qnite serious sense it
would have been not less than enongh to kill hint
But in the miracle that he had she took her con-
scions party for she had tonehed that first astonish-
ment of his donbt and fear and pain, and changed
it of her will : she had of intent liberated the paling
blood of his first emotions to expand and mingle in
veins more greatly charged. She had asked him to
meet her. She knew. The marvel was theirs.

For two or three minutes only they had been alone,
all that long afternoon. The rest was shouts and
chatter and many faces confused to the likeness of
one intervening animal substance Uiought of as 'Hhe
others.'' This substance obscured her. She seemed
to be dreadfully far off; it was as though at any
moment she might vanish. Even when he was quite
close to her, as often during a game of Prisoners'
Base, ''the others" robbed hin^ of any real sense of
her. He kept in struggle against thwarting odds.
At the end of that game Doreen had said, with a
rather petulant snapped laugh: ''Now, Alec, you're
to be captain of a 'side' in the next. I hope you're
duly elated. " The phrase, though so usual to the girl,
so much in her type, had struck him heavily. "Duly
elated." He pondered on its meaninglessness to him.
"Elated"— "Gfflian"— was it possible to think that
name, to harbour itt If as captain, with first choice,
he were to say: "111 take Miss Collett,," the world
might suddenly stop. He chose Doreen. It was for
hide-and-seek. Gillian as she passed by him to go

184 BRUTE GODS

on the other **side/' murmured: "Tou must find
me"; she flashed on him the stupendous range of
meaning that Doreen's pondered term eould have.
While they were hiding, Alec, instead of keeping his
eyes on the ground according to code, made eager
scrutiny. Soon he saw her at the top of the Towers
he could not tell if she had seen him looking. She
disappeared behind the parapet

When he found her, she was sitting on the sunned
stone floor, closely in a comer, her knees drawn up,
and her tiny brown hands that Alec had not noticed
before, clasping her knees. The attitude seemed to
condense and impress her. She was flushed, and,
though still, her limbs and features seemed to have
underflow of motion.

**You were slow," she said, smiling quickly, then
turning from him.

**I came at once — straight." **The others" could
see him, standing up. He sat down, not close to
her. They were hidden by the parapet. *'Is there
any one else hiding up heret"

* * I 'm going back to London tomorrow evening, you
know."

**What do you meant Won't I see you again?
Couldn't you — f Tour hair looks very soft," he told
her, gravely urgent. **Is it!"

''That's why it gets like this. Hair's difficult if
it's soft — difficult to keep in order."

The boy's question seemed to have stilled the im-
patience that had run flecking Gillian's first words.
She spoke slowly, shifting her posture : with her chin

DISCLOSURES 186

resting on her hand she looked at him, with a look
that was disquieted, almost sad. ^ ' I 've annoyed her, ' '
he thought What could he do nowf If only he
knew just what she would like. Footsteps sounded
in ascent on the steps.

**n[l be here tomorrow morning," she said, without
any emotion, it seemed, but that of decision.
''Eleven."

**A11 right." They both rose, and Doreen was
there, with some boy.

With all the driven will of youth, with all youth's
illusive sense of power, and youth's proud ignorauce
of the inevitable unplacated world-old use that is
made of it, the use that smells of death. Alec went to
the appointment that Sunday morning. He rode
Mervyn's motor-bicycle: Mervyn, when he had asked
if he might, had said: ''I haven't lent it to you,
mind ; you took it. ' ' His father had been at a bed-
room window, he had seen him start. ... In a few
minutes they would all be goi^g to the Parish Church
— one of Mr. Braithwaite's sleepy sermons — ^McGill
reading the lessons. All these people — ^''the others,"
all of them — they were husks. How could they go on !

As the lover rode, wondering. Father Collett, feel-
ing anything but a husk, was finally revising the ser-
mon that he had been ''dared" to give by a teasing
boy, slightly drunk. In an hour or so he would be
delivering it. Had he in any sense evaded his prom-
ise f had he been in any way obscure, guarding him-
self f He read intently, with tightened mouth and
harassed eyes. At least he believed what he had

186 BRUTE GODS

written — all of it : he would never, so he passionately
assured himself, have consented to speak against his
belief — ^not even for Alec.

The boy thought suddenly of his stepmother. He
felt, for the first time in thought of her, ashamed.
Gillian knew, of course. What a pity that the Mater
should have done that, now I It was something that
came wrongly, something to be fended off, something
of hurt. He would not for the world have soiled her
by mention of it. It would be terrible to speak of the
Mater or of Williams in her presence. Alec was
perturbed. — On the way back yesterday he had seen
a man and a girl in one of those shells of houses that
the encroaching sea had battered and wrecked near
by the Martello Tower: the man had his arms round
the girl, their heads were touching. Alec had turned
away, repelled. Before, he would have taken it as
a matter of course, he might have laughed. Now it
seemed disgusting, blasphemous. And his step-
mother's elopement had something of the same look,
now, but involving him more, so that the shame of it
was heightened and much more personal. Such were
the workings of feminine refining infiuence, such were
the tricks of sex.

CHAPTER XVI

HE reached the Tower before eleven, and
waited for her, lying on the grass of the
artificial hill that rose up round the empty
moat. It was one of those Towers built in Napo-
leonic times for protection along the coast: a heavy
Georgian edifice, not much in use either before or
since the recent war. The drawbridge was always
down, and the gate rarely locked. To the east was
the sea, immediately, and westward a stretch of
brackish river, with a jutting landing-stage, near
which accumulated sail-boats and row-boats — small
haphazard craft. The southward cut one blankly off :
here were dykes and no human signs. Malstowe to
the north had at this distance a quality of pictur-
esqueness always freshly surprising those familiar
with the near aspects of the town : seen in the rise of
her hill past the water-reach and the flat-land she
suggested by a skilful stroke of pretension, Venice;
even the tower of her waterworks helped to impress
the resemblance; it was not too unlike a Campanile,
seen from there. But river and dykes and flat-land
to west and south were prevailingly Dutch : they had
the reassuring philosophic repose of Dutch vistas. In
the tempered kind warmth of the summer morning
those sails of pale yellow and rich red-brown stirred
dreamily, and the very smoke from the tavern and
the few cottages that lay between river and sea was

187

188 BRUTE GODS

half -asleep. What Alec noticed was that there did
not seem to be any one about. His keen sentience
and beating expectation, in divorce from all these
appearances, did not parley with them either in re-
sentment or acceptance. The scene looked tolerantly
on at him, and continued in its mood.

He could not see Gillian in his mind with any clear-
ness, but this did not tease him as with Frippie : he
was full of the sense of her. It was now past eleven.
The distant bells of Malstowe Church had finished the
tolling of the last ten minutes before the Service
hour. Alec looked up along the rough road toward
the town; there was no one. He could just discern
a sailor — ^a woman carrying a pail. Gillian not in
sight. . . . After a minute or two he turned toward
the sea, and there she was, within speaking distance
of him, walking rapidly along the beach, with un-
swinging gait, her head raised. He stood up. She
walked looking to the sea, so that her face was from
him: there was a loose curl under the tassel of her
black fez-like hat. She wore a blue serge dress with a
green sash. Alec's, eyes widened and lightened at
the lines of her straight figure, with their firm and
delicate boldness of stroke — away from her slight but
not boyish hips to her breast and neck, and again
away downward to the rippling edge of her skirt that
seemed drawn close to her, yet unimpeding. And she
came for him, altogether for him: she had banished
''the others.'*

Approaching the Tower she turned and saw him.
They went to meet each other.

DISCLOSURES 189

''Now tell me first — " She gave no greeting, she
spoke with a tightened abruptness, her nnwnilmg
ambigaons glance dropped from him at once. ''Tell
me just how old you are."

"Nineteen. Doreen could have told you that."

"I don't want to talk about you to Doreen. Doreen
wants to talk about you to me. She could have told
you how old I am, did shet"

"No — of course." They began walking up the hill
to the drawbridge.

"Well, I'm twentynaix."

"I shouldn't like you to be any other age. Not
for anything."

Qillian, embarrassed and pleased by the earnest
weight of his words, laughed to hide her feelings, then
stopped short, ashamed. To behave like a silly girl
— ^with that kind of dissimulation, she. . . . How
deep his eyes werel Why didn't he give her his
arm, going up this steep little hillt She took it,
half -defiantly, half-capriciously, then she was almost
drawing away. It was as though somehow she had
bared him . . . the sensitiveness of his touch went
through her, she could feel it tingling in her fingers,
alarmingly. She must do something, say something,
give some direction to this, not let them both be at
the mercy . . . taken aback. Her intellect, intensely
conscious, rebelled against this emotional attack, so
imi>ertinently sprung upon her, and unfairly, so
swerving her from her old lines and meditated action,
bidding her "do as she was told," on the moment, with
none of her wonted view of what she did or why she

190 BRUTE GODS

did it. And it was not as though she were in love
with this child, either. She liked him, liked very
much his liking her.

''Tell me about yourself," she demanded with an
imperative assertion summoned to her need. She was
getting more used to his arm now, it was not quite
so— "I wanted to know more about you. That's
why I came this morning."

"Oh, I— well, that's just what I don'lr— There
hasn't really been anything, you see — ^not anything
important. Not tUl now. I suppose I've just gone

on."

He spoke without any shyness, without marked hesi-
tation. She had freed him of shyness, he was grate-
fully conscious of that. For an instant he thought of
Frippie, but then she had freed him because she was
so much less than he was, he saw that now. Gillian
was so infinitely more, he had only to wait on her
power, to rest in it ... no need of anything but that.

**Tou only think so." They were at the top of the
hill, by the steps that led down to the dry grassy
moat. Alec released her arm, but at once took it
again, took it afresh, as she felt, with a renewal, in
disturbing difference, of that tremor. She drew from
him, and then was exasperated with herself for being
*'coy." These "instinctive girlish movements" —
really 1 "Most things that are important happen be-
fore you're nineteen," she went on in a common-sense
tone. "Inside things, I mean."

"Oh, no."

He gave her the same wondering deep look. She

DISCLOSURES 191

tried to elutch her excitement and scan it: she could
not. There were beating wings in her. With head
half-tamedy she stood looking on the ground, as Alec
was speaking. She heard him dimly; he was more
decided than he had been before. She liked that. . . .
It was with this boy's stepmother that Carlyon-Wil-
liams had run off; how queer. ... He was assuring
her that there hadn't been anything important, that
nothing had happened, to count. . . . She knew what
he meant— oh, he meant the usual * ' I never knew what
it was to live till I met youl" She tried to feel
cynical, she couldn% it was all too sweet to her. But
comedy broke into her exaltation when she reflected
on her attitude — head turned, eyes averted, a Royal
Academy picture of ** First Lov6" or *'A Meeting."
She was not young enough to escape the ridiculous-
ness of sex. In a half-resentful, half-humourous de-
fiance of herself she argued that she wasn't posing,
that it would have been a pose for her to have stood
anyhow else. Then her mind stiffened, she resolved
not to let herself go ; she would think.

They found themselves walking down the narrow
steps together, closely together, as, walking so, they
had to be. He felt her hair against his cheek once,
lightly. He realized her as neither tall nor short;
a head shorter than he, perhaps. He was much more
contained and sure than he could have believed he
could be : all ungainliness was gone, he had to f oUow
in the line of her poise and grace, to take their sug-
gestions. How she helped him I Again his reflection
was grateful: he thought of the rude challenge, the

192 BRUTE GODS

gross insistence of the emotions that Frippie had
made in him — ^their evasions of promise, their false
starts and empty conclusions. What there had been
was so little, contenting for a time because he didn't
know, but what virtue or meaning had those satis-
factions heldf And when he had reached for more,
there had been nothing. No lying intimations, now
— ^there would be everything endlessly— dear joy and
understanding.

"Why did you take me down here!" She spoke
with forced lightness, relieving the importance of their
silence.

''Did I!"

They stood on the last step. QiUian looked up.
There was nothing but Tower and sky, they were
walled in. Her heart seemed to be beating in strong
little waves that broke in her throat. Why had she
allowed this, and, having allowed it, why was she
agitated, almost frightened — ^frightened of nothing t
She had to make an effort not to tremble. Alec real-
ized with bewildering suddennesss that she was stand-
ing facing him, with her back to the high wall of the
moat.

"Well I" she exclaimed. "We're here, anyhow 1"
She gave him one of her racing looks. "No, stay
where you are. I want to see — Take your hat off,
I like your hair." She told herself defiantly that she
would say anything she chose, she invoked arrogance
to her rescue from this disconcerting stress. But it
was extraordinarily difficult to say anything that
wouldn't sound either pointless for them or coquettish

DISCLOSURES 198

or utterly bald. ''Wellt We are two ridiculotis
people 1 ' ' She laughed, and put her hands up behind
her heady lifting her chin a little.

"Why are wet Jw aren't''

Alee stopped, held by the new look of her throat
— the look that her raising and turning of her chin
had given him. He moved to her under the impulse
of that unfamiliar straining curve, that delicate
tightening of the pale olive flesh.

"You're wonderful." He was dose to her, he
spoke low. "I don't know — ^I didn't know that any
one could be so — "

"Oh, I'm not I You can't really— I mean you don't
know at alll"

Her arms dropped, she wavered before him. His
look of utmost conviction shamed her words. That
religious look of a devotee, it was absorbingly new
to her, yet not new, she had in some sort known it
It was terrible that he should be so sure, that his
youth should do this to him: it was terrible, and
great. That strong eagerness of his mouth, his eyes
so darkly lit, his boyish candour, all his unknowing
boldness . . . she could have dropped at his feet
and humbled herself to him for ever. No other way to
hold fast by that tenderness and passion. He could
subdue her, this boy who seemed to be at her will.

"I Wtot youl" he whispered. "You can't tell how
much — ^I must — '*

"But whatt" She held out her hands, and he
caught them, burning her though.

"It's not like anything I've ever— it's because —

194 BRUTE GODS

Ohy I — ^I love you! May I say that, do you miudt
do youf

Her mouth shook, she waited for him to say it
again.

"May I kiss yout"

The girl of twenly-six was wholly taken by that
question which no one but a novice can ever ask.
The contrast of his diffidence and humility and re-
straint with the overpowering and momentous com-
pulsion that drove from him, so sure in his mouth and
eyes, confirmed her his. She did not answer, she
looked hard, then she kissed him, and stayed.

In that chaste transfiguration of flesh they were
lifted, they flew in gold light, in a brightness that
turned Time and all else black, made all else nothing.
In the quivering expanse of their fused selves light-
ning shook, waves of far strange air swept on their
unison, moulding it in light and heat, creating it as
a third thing, a new being, apart entirely from the
cast-off mortalities that lay shrivelled from them, for-
gotten. They clasped this new life, transubstantiated
flesh and soul in their sacrament.

When she left his arms, he had part in her still,
she being of him still when they sat with hands that
clung for full remembrance, full assurance of a pos-
session that no heavier physical stamp had blurred,
no stamp of Nature's material will. He spoke her
name then for the first time. "Gillian!" Over and
again he said it: "Gillian — dear— my Gillian.'*
Her looks for him now were from stilled eyes, eyes
that had known and rested in the event. She was

DISCLOSURES 195

pale, her mouth no less than her eyes seemed changed,
there was a new severance of her lips.

''What is it, dear? '' he asked anxiously, mistaking
for suffering her look of desire to suffer.

**You do love met You are suret'*

''I always shaU!''

He touched her soft mutinous hair, kissed her mouth,
her mouth only. He was no practised satiated lover,
to dally with her neck and throat. She was in swirl
of feelings that she could not face in any free regard
for what they were: all her instinct battled against
the admission of them to her conscious thought. She
could but strive feebly for the honesty in which she
had such pride, she could only think: ''And I'm
modem!" Could any woman be modem when it
came to this t This resonance of the mouths of ancient
powers and glories. . . . His hair and forehead
pressed to her. . . .

"No, Alec!" She tightened his hand. "Not
now. I can't, I — "

She was afraid. He felt a shiver pass through her,
into him.

"Qillian. You are happy, aren't yout"

"Am It I must be — ^I don't know — You moved
in my heart. All that time, you — "

"You did in mine! But you're trembling, again.
Why!"

"I can't help it. I suppose it's a — ^a sort of wind
of love." She bit her lip, ashamed. "What are we
to do, Alect We don't know what to do!"

"Oh, I never could have thought — " He looked

196 BRUTE GODS

white and spent. '*I didn't dare, Gillian. It seemed
too wonderful, I couldn't even think it, do yon know!
We're— we're each other's, aren't we, always!"

'^ 'Always'!" Her voice broke. ''Oh, Alec, if
only you weren't so young — ^if I wasn't — It isn't
fair. You're seven years younger." Gillian sum-
moned her strayed forces. She clutched at the reac-
tion which seemed for the moment to give her the
chance for the honesty which that intellectual con-
science of hers demanded. She tried not to feel his
hand. ' ' Have you thought just what that means ! ' '

"But I told you, dearest, that — " His dark eyes
were on her in anxious surprise.

**I know. I know you did." She saw how eagerly
the sun played with his hair. "But you won't think
so in five years' time — or less — ^Alec."

"Ill always think so, you know I will. How could
I love any of these young girls like you! They're
stupid. You 're only teasing. ' '

"Perhaps jrou couldn't, now. YouTl be twenty-
three when I'm thirty. Nothing can ever get us away
from that."

She did not wince, but stiffened, under her cruelty
to herself. She was of Father CoUett's blood. But
she could not speak her torturing thoughts further,
could not say: "And when you're thirty — ^a middle-
aged woman!" Instead, she had to think: "After
all, I shouldn't look middle-aged, I'm sure I
shouldn't."

"You might get tired of me," she went on, "you
would—"

DISCLOSURES 197

''Tired of yaut Why, Qillian dear, you must
know — "

"Well, but — " There was no arguing with the
boy's indignant amaze, but again her reason caught
Qillian, caught her in stiffening breeze, billowing out
the sails of her theories. ''It always happens, it's
the way things are. . . . Did you ever read 'Mademoi-
selle de Maupin'!^'

"No. IVe read some of de Maupassant." He
said that so hopefully, so much as though he had done
the next best thing, that Gillian for the brief moment
could have kissed him in simple affection. ' ' How well
you speak French!"

"I suppose I ought to. The girl in that book —
she leaves the man after they've loved each other
for one — ^for one day."

"I say! Gillian! You're not going to—" He
pleaded, alarmed. ' ' You — ^you do like me ! "

"You know I Uke you. Yes, I suppose sol" She
gave a laugh that ran light and shining, child to her
voice and eyes. Those sails of theory collapsed quite.
For her to lecture him from the text of "Mademoiselle
de Maupin"!

"I never have loved any one at all before!" He
flushed over his spent look.

"Neither have I !" It was true, in an even deeper
sense than Alec's assertion. Gillian had the fastid-
iousness often found with passionate temperaments
that are joined to active minds. "And I want you
to love me, Alec, I do, I do! There!"

She lay yielding in the assurance of his arms. That

198 BRUTE GODS

first violent shaking transcendence was gone from
them now, they rested together in sweet armistice,
they were nearer to one another because farther from
their passion. Gillian felt that her closed lids bnmt
blue, not red. He kissed her lips, but more tenderly,
more consciously. These were not moments of that
first huge surge and crash, they did not break so far
beyond, they were moments that would come back to
surer remembrance. . . . His embrace grew more
close, it began to challenge what they ha^ it flushed
her surreujder with deeper colour. She had to refuse,
to resist; she left him.

* * Alec, ' ' she said. * * Oh, I wonder what will happen
to ust It seems so much as if you couldn't tell!"

"We'll marry, of course I"

"Will wet" She stopped, and looked troubled,
almost sad.

"Then well always be together— always — ^and
every one will know!" He spoke triumphantly,
proudly. "When people are in love, they always
marry, don't they! Unless — "

He broke off, blushing, remembering Gillian's "ad-
vanced opinions," wondering. He had not thought
of them since seeing her, and their association with
her now seemed terribly indelicate. Father GoUett's
feelings about marriage did not so much as graze him,
neither then nor later.

"Oh, I don't know!"

Gillian was harassed. She found herself wanting
to get Alec to talk of Doreen, she wanted to know if
there had been anything between them, anything at

DISCLOSURES 199

all. She was consnmingly anxioiis for him to say
something that would put Doreen far below her.
How unworthy this was, she thought, how mean!
She rejected her wish. Marriage. . . . She knew
what she ought, in that intellectual honesty of hers,
to say, but she couldn't — ^not to this boy who loved
her, whom she — She felt wicked, now. Her natural
conscience seemed to be working against her intellec-
tual wickedness. She found it equally difficult to live
up to her theories or to her desires. ''How atavis^
tic I am!" she thought. "It's absurd." Then with
blinding clearness she saw that the real temptation —
for she had money enough — ^was to take him and marry
him and keep him as long as she could. This, as she
saw it, was the real immorality that beckoned her.

**I couldn't marry you yet, of course." He spoke
with a grave young dignity, terribly touching to her.
''We could wait a little, we'd be seeing each other all
the time." The thought of Mervyn and Nita crossed
him, but he instantly dismissed them. ' ' Oh, it would
be, it'd be simply — I"

"Well, then we'd certainly — ^we'd know better.
No, Alec — ^let me think."

She sat, drawn up away from him, looking steadily
to the far side of the moat. She tried to seek refuge
on the familiar ground of her "views." If she at-
tacked marriage now, to him, it would be out of sheer
virtue I She thought of the affair of his stepmother,
but that was too near him, and too near her: she
shrank from any allusion almost as wincingly as he
did. And how could she talk— talk — after this?

200 BRUTE GODS

Phrases of the articles she had written, the speeches
she had made at meetings of ''Women Workers'' came
to her. She felt ashamed of them. They were
pedantic, inky, priggish, absard. If she said them
now, how dreadfully ashamed she'd be — and it wonld
stop .him loving her, she knew it wonld ! He took her
hand, took shyly the fingers only. — ^''Marriage a gross
advertisement of purely private relations." Her
thoughts went on. "Because two people wish to be
bound for ever in a moment of abnormal excitement,
that's no excuse for Society's taking a base advantage
of them. " ' ' Husband and wife can 't be lovers, nnless
they're terribly unimaginative, dull, placid people."
''Economic independence of women the real solution."
"Money conditions made marriage, and change of
money conditions will break it." — Spectacled phrases !
How watery all these words looked, how hollow they
sounded, how small they were in the face of this
great thing that she and he had felt ! When he held
her, she'd have married him for a thousand years,
sooner than have lost him for a moment. . . . "Ab-
normal excitement" — ^as if a pale phrase like that
came near it! All the same her brain would keep
beating unconvinced, beating hard: she had to hear
that all this was "glamour." Well, even if it were,
why should she knowt She wouldn't know now, she
wouldn't spoil — What if it couldn't last! Perhaps
it would. Anyhow, she didn't care. And she
wouldii't say a word to him . . . theories of mar-
riage.

'. . t «

DISCLOSURES 201

"What's the matter, dearf What are 70U think-
ing about t ' ' AleCy snspecting that her look embraced
more than him, was jealous. He quickened to her,
burned to recall her to himself. They were losing
time — ^terribly.

''Oh, that I was bom a little too late, that's all.
Even though you were bom later!"

"Do come to me, dear. Please-— Gillian — "

"Not now." All she could think, then, was in her
wish for him to take her again, but the very strength
of the wish made the decision of her refusal. "No,
not now, I mean it!" He felt her little nerve-ridden
hand quiver on his protesting mouth. He lookecUat
her, lovingly reproachful, and again that eager dark
tenderness of his eyes shot through her. Ah, she
must keep him now — any way — ^just for a little!
"Alec!" she exclaimed, with a sudden change of tone,
astonishing to him. "If you did stop loving me, I
wouldn't keep you — I wouldn't — ^not if you — "
Tears rushed wantonly on her, she turned away.

"Why should we think about what won't ever hap-
pen t Oh, Gillian!" He took her, turning her to
him, with a violence overpoweringly sweet to the re-
laxing girl. Her eyes, larger and softer with their
tears, were lovelier to him than ever. "You mustn't
talk like this, you mustn't — ^you mustn't think — "

"Well!" She broke from her yielding to his kiss.
"It's a pily I'm not seventeen. I shouldn't talk like
that then, and you'd be fairly caught!" Her laugh
was insecure.

202 BRUTE GODS

"I wanttobel*'

''Oh, Aleo — ^please. I said not, before. You don't
care what I say I''

"But why!"

"Oh, I don't know!" She was afraid of his not
wanting to be with her again, not wanting it quite
so much. ''We must go. Tell me: when can you
come to Londonf"

"Oh, as soon as — ^in a day or two, I'll come !"

"Here's my address." She gave him a card.
"You'll telephone t" She blushed deeply, she was
heavily struck by shame. "I will, I will," she told
herself, rebelling.

"Yes, could I come tomorrow?" To Alec the blush
meant a new lustre and flash for her eyes.

"No; the end of the week. ' Tomorrow' 1" She
teased his comically instant dejection. "I oughtn't
to see you there at alll"

"What do you meant"

"Oh, because my great-great-great-grandmother
tells me not to I I don't care, though. You aren't
sentimexital about money, Alec, are youf " she added,
determined to resist her ancestress further. She
leaned capriciously, and gave him a light unexpected
kiss. "Was it yesterday we first mett At least our
acquaintance has 'ripened rapidly,' you'll admit."
Her eyes went shimmering. Alec was reminded of
Father CoUett's vivid changes of mood.

"And we are engaged, aren't we, Gillian!"

"Oh, we'll talk about that next time!" Then:

DISCLOSURES 208

'^Look up!" she said^ in a low distinct tone q^ no

emotion.
He looked. The wall behind them was sormonnted

by the incensed face of his father.
''What is the meaning^ sir, of this performance f"
''I'll go/' Alec whispered, pressing her hand.

"Wait for me; please wait."

CHAPTER XVII

GILLIAN did not ponder her interruption
of the altercation between father and son:
it sprang from her sense of indignity in
being left alone * * down there, ' ' from her more argent
sense of Alec's inexperience needing her protection,
and from the rapid-growing violence of her impatience.
After three minutes it seemed as though he and his
father would go on talking for ever. Some of the
first words she could hear : ' ' Go away 1 ' ' and * ' You 'd
better not!^' from Alec: ''I will not have it, sir!"
then, less distinctly, as they moved from the moat:
*'. . . any more immorality, in my family." ''If
you don't go, 111." . . . Then only their voices reached
her strained hearing, and the moments lengQiened.
Infinite values wavered in them. . . . She must leave
that place, she'd be sunk there. As she got up, her
consciousness snapped under a sudden stroke of black,
the ground swam against her ; she held herself tightly,
driving her feet down. Then, released, she gained
the steps of the moat, rapidly climbing them, check-
ing herself when the wall no longer concealed her.

Mr. Glaive, who stood facing the moat, saw her
first. He stared, blinked, broke the sentence he was
in, broke the change of posture that he had been
about to make. He held ground, wary at once. Alec,
turning, exclaimed with dropping mouth.

204

DISCLOSURES 205

* ' Mr. Glaive. ' ' Oillian spoke at once, not looking at
Alec. ' * Could you give me a lift back to Malstowe t
If you'd be so kind—!"

Olaive, annoyed that be had not done so before, —
it would have been the correct thing, — raised his hat,
elaborating the gesture. ''I am at your service, of
course.*' He was delighted by his own restraint, by
the fine pitch of his formality: the word ''breeding"
caressed him.

''Thank you so much. I saw you had your car.
If I walked back I'm afraid I might be late. I'm
meeting the Burkes, you see."

*' Gillian I" Alec broke in with an indignant vehe-
mence that pressed on her hard. "Won't you tell
him about us, why won't you — !"

'Did you ride or walk here, Alec!" she asked him.
I can't tell him — ^not properly. I thought you'd
come to help me!"

"Motor-cycle," said Mr. Glaive, with a sideways
glance at her.

"Where did you leave it, then!"

"Gillian, I don't — He doesn't understand, he's
got it all wrong, I do think you might — "

"I don't see any cycle." She looked inquiringly.

"He left it at 'The Seven Mariners.'" Mr.
Glaive jerked his thumb in the direction of the
tavern.

"Oh, well, that's all right. As your father is be-
ing good enough to take me — It's a two-seater, isn't
it! I'm so sorry, but I'm rather late already. Do
you mind — !"

it'
it

206 BRUTE GODS

Alec relapsed, confounded, as they walked toward
the car. How could shef What did she mean t Ah,
she would tell his father when they were driving, that
was it, of course ! What would she say t He wanted
to be there, he ought to be there. It was awful, being
left out like this, it seemed a sort of trick. What
would she say t He must know —

"Well, Alec, will you crank her up!"

The boy started, he looked at Qillian in appeal,
but she would not catch his eye. "Oh, then it's not
a self-starter/' she said.

"No; quite an old car. Does for rough work about
the country, though."

Mr. Olaive's tone was guardedly good humoured.
"A clever minx," he thought. He would like to
tell her so, in the right way, in a man-of-the-world
way. She was certainly pretty.

Alec cranked. The operation si)elt out the memory
of Matcham's meeting for him, spelt it slowly, pain-
fully. He wrestled with that impertinent recall to
dead emotions. But had his father won again, nowf
No, he hadn% he never could 1 It wasn't right,
though, that he should be taking Gillian, it looked as
though. . . . Why had she done that t "If he hadn't
come, I should be with her alone still, we could have
walked back to Malstowe together." Alec kindled
against his father, but in a moment his anger dis-
appeared in the saturation of his loss. She was leav-
ing him. If only he could make his father under-
stand, or if only his father would go, not be there,
that was all he asked, he'd forgive him anything then.

DISCLOSURES 207

Absorbed as he was, adolescent as he was, he did not
for a moment reflect on or take pride in the girl's
spirit, her address. She puzzled him, and he was al-
most resentful.

Gillian waved her hand, smiled: they drove off.
His gaze dung to her slight shoulders, her fez-shaped
hat with its blowing tassel, blowing with the curl of
her hair, her arm that rested along the edge of the
ear, her hand that just showed, but now he had lost
it. His father ought not to be sitting by her, so near
as that, nobody ought I She receded, leaving him in
exile. He must be with her, always, he could not
bear this, her absence rent him, how could it be
borne t That parting seemed to be for ever, he felt
that it was for ever, he was convinced, hopelessly, of
an eternal severance between them. Absolute cer-
tainty of seeing her again was what he demanded;
anything less than that was tragically insecure. And
there were a hundred things that could happen to
cut them apart. Suppose she met with some acci-
dent, suppose he did — He wished he had not taken
Mervyn's motor-cycle, he must ride it very carefully.
How distant she was now. Gould it be so lately that
he had — could he have ever held so close that distant
figure t When she was with him she had taken off her
hat : he could not remember when, could not remember
her doing it . . . her hair. . . .

Something fluttered from the car, something white.
Paper, it looked like paper ... a message from her.
He ran. It might blow away, blow out to sea, be
lost. Everything seemed like that — ^in danger. In a

208 BRUTE GODS

fever of doubt and insecurily he raced on : he couldn't
see the white thing, he ^aa not even sure where it
had dropped. It might be that everything depended
on his finding it. He felt more and more certain that
if he didn't find it he would never see Gillian again.
His present loss of her outlined all her values, it
deepened them, set him fast in them. Sudden as it
liad come, and stronger for another's part in it, it
blew cold on the boy's molten metal which it hardened
to a weight that stayed. He ran unsladdngly, with
searching eyes. . . . What if she had been snatched
from himt Suppose his father were talking to her
now, arguing with her, trying to keep her away, to
get her to promise t Then he would kill him. There
would be no difficulty then, any way would do,
wouldn't matter — ^not if his father had done that.
But Gillian wouldn't promise, she couldn't. . . .He
insisted on this, f alteringly, feeling that he ought to
have no doubt.

There it was, the white thing I To the side of the
road, not far ahead, against a telegraph-pole. Alec
ran faster. But it wasn't paper. ... Ah I he under-
stood, she had let it drop for him, so that he would
have something that belonged to her, so that he would
know that she — ^what they called a ''token." He
thought of a Latin phrase of his recent schooldays:
'^pignus amoris" — "pledge of love" — ^a pledge. He
was exalted by delight and joy. This was a message
better than writing — ^it was just the assurance he
craved — something of hers — ^f or him.

He halted by the telegraph-pole, stooped, half

DISCLOSURES 209

blinded, reaching down with hands that tingled and
shook. In a passion of tender reverence, he took the
token up. It was his father's handkerchief, a par-
ticularly nice clean silk one, for Sunday.

CHAPTER XVIII

WILFRED VAIL, half an hour later, was ar-
rested in the middle of one of his leisurely
engagements by the plugging of a motor-
cycle. The sound advanced, turned up the longer
one of the two convei^ng drives that led to his
house. Vail 's wide nostrils gave a slight brisk flutter
of expectation, A new engine for him to examine:
excellent. He dispatched, shortly, the affair he was
in. A new engine: he could tell that at once, for
the voice of each motor of the neighbourhood was dis-
tinguishable to him. He did not speculate for a mo-
ment about this particular motor-cycle's accidental
human attachment.

Alec was slowing down at the end of the drive as
his friend emerged from the familiar little one-story
annex which stood modestly out from the low white-
brick house, enhancing its air^ of pleasant amplitude.

''Why, it's you, Alec! Where did you get the
eyelet"

**0h, it's Mervyn's."

**YouVe never taken it here before." Vail's tone
was somewhat aggrieved. ''Let's have a look at it.
Lord, what a state it's in I You can't keep a motor-
cycle any cleaner than you keep your fountain-pen.
What a messy person you are ! I shall have to spend
most of the afternoon on this." He took his spec-

210

DISCLOSURES 211

tacles off, wiped his face, and looked reproachfally
at Alec with his pale large blue eyes that shone watery
in the sun. **You aren't lookmg well, either," he
said, a shade severely. '*Come on, for Qod's sake
let's get out of this glare. — ^What have you been up
tot''

**0h, nothing particular — " Alec leaned the cycle
against the wall.

Wilfred remembered the stepmother's elopement;
the motor-cycle had quite put it out of his mind.
Of course that accounted for the odd look Alec had
had under his scrutiny. They hadn't met since.
Poor boy, it must have been a shock— of course — dis-
turbing. He took his arm, with intimate pressure.
**I'd been expecting you now you were home again,"
he said. ''I've been thinking about you a lot. Alec.
You know that"

The boy hardly heard him. He was overwhelmed
by the strangeness of being here in this known place,
with this known friend. It was life in the past ; some
self of his that was gone had been in that
life. ... He was remote: yet all the while the force
of Wilfred, the force of the scene, were insistent,
persuading him of the continuity of the time spent
in that place, in that friendship, since and now. It
was as though the reality, the existence of Gillian
were being challenged. She hadn't been here. It
was like the playing of some stratagem upon him.
Alec's new eyes unsurely disputed the sceptical, in-
different, yet positive claim that these habitual vistas
made on his vision.

212 BRUTE GODS

They went into the house together, still silent. Wil-
fred sat down and began rolling himself a very thin
cigarette; the tip of his tongue showed red against
his beard as he licked the paper. There was the same
picture of Hamlet with the skull, in its long frame
. . . that picture seen so often through poised clouds
of tobacco smoke, at winter midnights. . . . New
Year's Eve. Since Alec was fifteen he had spent
New Year's with Wilfred. Memories drove up thick,
the boy stared at them. It was inexplicable that he
should have never even seen her then, and that yet,
now, he was here.

*'Poor Alec," Wilfred was thinking, "this thing
has evidently hit him pretty hard.'* **Will you
smoke t" he said.

''Thanks.'' Alec took a yellow Russian cigarette
from the extended case. "I haven't smoked today."

*'Why this outburst of virtuet"

Alec flushed under his friend's mild incurious
glance. ''I didn't happen to think of it," he said
truthfully.

Looking out of the window, he was caught by the
glint of the conservatory roof in the sun. — ^Frippie's
grapes. — ^Another thing he had not happened to think
of. Disconcerted, he shut down against Frippie. He
wished he had not kissed her.

**I say. Alec." Wilfred saw that there would be
no ease between them until the matter came to surface.
''There's nothing I can say or do to help, of course,
but I feel with you. You understand that, don't
yout"

DISCLOSURES 218

"But how — t I don't see." Alec blushed more
deeply. ''I don't see how on earth you can know I"

''Oh, my dear boy, Suffolk gossip I Why, things
get about in five minutes — "

** 'Five minutes' 1" Alec echoed him in eonstemar
tion. He had grotesque visions of spies and couriers.

''Don't let's talk about it if you don't want to."
Wilfred looked at his watch. "Lunch will be soon.
Lunch, and stout. Ck>od stout, too, since the war
really ended."

'"I want to talk about it. That's why I came.
Have you seen hert I didn't — "

"'Seen her'?" Wilfred's mathematical mind
tried to cope with the question. ' ' I suppose you mean
since—"

"No, no; at any timet"

"Ah!" It flashed upon Wilfred Vail that what
Alec meant was, had he ever seen Mrs. Glaive so
comport herself as to suggest that she might be a
light woman. Beally, Alec was very elliptical. "No,
I never have," he replied decisively. "I shouldn't
be much of a judge, though."

' ' Oh, I thought you must have — because of what you
said about feeling with me. Look here, Wilfred,"
he went on hurriedly, "I don't know who told you or
what they said, but it's all absolutely different from
anything I've ever felt before — absolutely.''

"Yes, yes." Wilfred pulled his chair round to the
boy. He took his hand. ' ' I know. But these things
— one feels them most awfully at the time, but after
a while one adapts oneself. It becomes less important,

214 BRUTE GODS

yon see, by degrees one feels it less; and much sooner
than yon could have believed, you get over it''

'*! never shall!"

** Naturally that's how it seems, now. But — ^well,
you 11 see. The best thing you can do is to keep
your mind off it, all you can."

**Keepmymindoffit!"

** Certainly. Thinking about it won't help. The
thing's done. Worrying over it won't bring her
back."

"Oh, you heard about everything." Alec winced.
*'But I'U get her back. I'll go to her."

"I shouldn't. After all, that's your father's af-
fair, and he — "

''It's not his affair! I won't stand him interfer-
ing, I've made up my mind!"

Wilfred Vail stared at him. ** Those modem
ideasy" he gently deprecated. ** Surely — ^I may be
dreadfully conservative — ^but your father being mar-
ried to her, you see — "

"Oh! Good Lord, that Why, that wasn't it at
all!"

"What the devil is it, thent"

* * I thought, when you said — I thought you 'd heard
somehow about — about Gillian."

" Gillian t Who in heaven's name is Gillian t —
Well, I'll be—" he noted Alec's expression. "I'll be
damned if you're not in love! So that's all it is!
That's all that's wrong with you. My dear child —
my dear — " Wilfred leaned his head well back,
and laughed loudly. "Alec in love!" He gurgled.

DISCLOSURES 215

His mirth shook his beard, shook his spectacles.
''Really, Alec — " He gasped, straightening himself.
"I suppose I ought not to, it's partly because I know
you so well, you see." Alec's look of utter disgust
was too much for him, he leaned back again, com-
mitting himself fully to the irrepressible hilarity of
the situation. "My dear Alec — " He wiped his
eyes, recovering. "You mustn't look so indignant,
it makes me worse. There's something about a man
in love, you see, that's irresistibly funny, just as
there is about a man with a bilious attack. You
mightn't think it, but I really can sympathize with
you. I've had bilious attacks."

"You've never really been in love, you can't have.
You can't have cared — ^properly — "

"Oh, yes, I have. "Why, once, that time when I was
up at the Music College, I wrote verses to one of them.
I went further, I bought her a wrist-watch, used to
hang about jewellers' shops for hours. It's true I
thought better of it and kept the wrist-watch for
myself. Here it is! I wish you'd been in London
with me then. You missed a lot of entertainment."

' ' I shouldn 't have laughed at you I ' '

"Oh, yes, you would. It's too late now. Now I
intend to be thoroughly middle-aged. MTuch more
convenient. Since I took up with a beard and specta-
cles, Mrs. Vail is frequently mistaken for my wife.
Come on, let's go and wash. There's no bell. Mrs.
Yail has gone gadding off to Bournemouth." He
not only always alluded to his mother as "Mrs. Vail,"
but he so addressed her. It was a part of the for-

216 BRUTE GODS

xnality that kept the comers of their domestic life
rounded and smooth. ''She's taken Mrs. Leech with
her and given the others a holiday. I'm grabbing
along with the boy. Just what I like, as you know.
The ritual of the household is thoroughly wasteful
both of time and labour. It's peculiarly the sphere
of woman, and in it she shows peculiarly well her
inherent lack of method and love of display. The
barbaric, as opposed to the businesslike. A whole-
some reminder for you, my dear boy. Come on. Tim-
othy will have put something cold on the table. You
can tell me all about her while we're getting
fed.''

Alec's resentment cooled as they walked up the
familiar stairway. Those lurking influences kept
creeping back on him. . . . There was Wilfred's bed,
without sheets, as always, and with the pillows piled
high on account of his nervous heart, so that it
shouldn't '' drop beats." They had sat together on
that bed, watching the dawn come. * * The dawn with
silver-sandalled feet, ' ' Wilfred had quoted. Alec had
never seen that there was an3rthing in poetry before.
How was it that Wilfred couldn't understand nowt
The boy, as he washed his hands and face, wondered.
It struck him that Wilfred and his experiences with
Wilfred were really much closer to what he felt now
than anything else in his life. For it was Wilfred
who had first touched his sense of beauty, first made
it conscious, given him perception, shown him the
romantic urgency of visible things. No one had in-
fluenced him anything like as much, before Gillian

DISCLOSURES 217

came. He had brought things to life — words of
poetry, the look of the night sky, the pulse of music,
everything that she now contained, that passed now in
intenser flow to him through her, his only medium. . . .

**Why have you given up playing, Wilfred T'

"Oh, you can't play without practice. I don't
want to degenerate into an amateur. And you know
my poor dear health won 't let me be an artist. ' '

''Are you reaUy interested in all this motoring
stufEt"

"Of course I am. Hurry up. "What with your
being in love and not getting my lunch I shall b^n to
blaspheme horridly in a moment. Do dry your hands.
I never saw anything like the laboured inadequacy
of the way you pat them. I wish I could make a
first-rate mechanic of you. Alec. When Teddy — ^my
good doctor — ^told me without any beating about the
bush that if I didn't chuck my sedentary nerve-ex-
hausting life I'd go off in a year, that settled it. It's
a mistake, physically, to be bom when your father's
nearly seventy." He took Alec's arm and led him
out of the room. "Why, you know the only decent
thing I ever composed — ^that Mass they played at the
Oratory — ^what did that meant No proper sleep for
a month — ^I got so that I couldn't stir out of the house
without — ^you know." He shivered. "Teddy sug-
gested some open-air hobby — ^hard physical work and
not a hint of nerve-strain. Wise man. Now I sleep
nine hours every night and have the nerves of a
bricklayer. Try the same cure, it might work with
you. Ah. Lunch/' They sat down.

218 BRUTE GODS

''Yes, I know. It was extraordinary how you
changed everything, so suddenly."

''Oh, I'd always had a sneaking interest in
mechanics. Music and mechanics are quite near to-
gether, really." He deftly carved the cold roast
beef. "It's simply the practical instead of the emo-
tional application of the same forces. Not so difScult,
Alec, not such a wrench to exchange counterpoint and
trilling on sixths for cardan shafts and cantilever
springs. There's mathematical instinct comes in for
both, but in mechanics it's entirely detached, it's cold
and clear and impersonal : it leaves you alone. Music
wants your life-blood, damn her, music won't be con-
tent without raping you body and soul. Too much
of a good thing, at least for me it is, — Do you know
why musicians are nearly always cold and sensual?
They haven 't anything left over for love. ' '

' ' That must be why you don 't understand. ' ' Alec
took his chance.

"Don't understand what!"

"About me — and — "

"Oh, I see. You and — ^what was her namet"

"Gillian." Alec bent his bead over his plate.

"Ah, yes. That's to the point. Nature or Life or
whatever you choose to call it is playing a — ^well, let 's
call it a Fugue on you. You're in the score ; the score
is you, in fact'*

"And her."

"Oh, of course one has to have some sort of a
theme! The point is that musicians aren't often used

DISCLOSURES 219

like that. It 's a case of two of a trade, you see ; trade-
jealousy comes in. When a musician does fall in love,
he does bad work at once; sheer spite on Nature's
part, I call it. I know when I was making that par-
ticular kind of fool of myself, my work went to pieces.
We don't make good lovers, either, from the woman's
point of view. They like the usual man — ^the Philis-
tine."

Alec resolved to be unimpeachably normal, he hoped
he was a Philistine.

''There's no doubt an artist ought to avoid mar-
riage. What a fate for a man of genius! Bread-
winner for wife and babes!"

"Well, I'm not an artist."

"Luckily marriage isn't practicable for you yet.
Alec."

"Not at once, perhaps." The observation annoyed
the boy extremely. "It may be — soon."

"'Soon'!"

"Why nott"

"Because you're nineteen. And you aren't either
a prince or a peasant."

"I could be engaged, anyhow."

"I hope you're not going to tell me you are.*'

"Well, not exactly. I shall know when I see her
again."

"I suppose she's one of those young things one
sees about with hair in tails down their backs t Thin
tails of hair and tight backs and school straw hats
with monogrammed ribbons." He groaned.

220 BRUTE GODS

**She isn't young. Not like that." Alec felt ex-
tremely glad that she wasn't. 'She's twenty-six," he
announced proudly.

**What! Well, she ought to know better, then.
Her age doesn't at all reassure me. Alec. In fact,
I find her age rather alarming. Everything depends
on her, of course. She might go kidnapping you.
. . . Has she moneyt Who is she?"

''She's Father Collett's niece."

"Worse and worse. All the CoUetts are well oflP,
I believe. You've taken away some of my appetite,
Alec. Yours, I notice, is fairly hearty. A sign of
hope, perhaps."

"I never knew you were against marriage."

"Why should I bet I'm not married, and very
grateful I am for the immense advantages that gives
me. I regard bachelorhood as the privilege of the
level-headed few. As long as marriage isn't com-
pulsory— I'm very much against marriage for you,
naturally. I don't have to tell you I'm fond of you.
Alec." His eyes lighted with that peculiar sincerity
and singleness of affection often found in men who
are not romantically controlled and who take the com-
pensating drive of their sensuality^ too easily and
openly to be harassed or embittered by it. "I don't
want you to be grabbed by a girl — not yet, anyhow.
Later on, of course — ^well, it's one of those unpleasant
things you have to expect, when the time comes."

"But we'd always be friends — ^just the same."

"Some hundreds of millions of people have made
that remark before you, dear boy, and found out their

DISCLOSURES 221

mistake." Wilfred finished his glass of stout. **0f
course there's one advantage in marr3dng a girl with
money. You can afford to live separately later on.
I'm quite sure that hadn't occurred to you — "

''No, it hadn't!"

*'I thought not. Be grateful to me, then, for a new
idea. Let me see. — ^Yes, take some tart, I'll go on to
cheese. Twenty-six — ^nineteen. I don't think she'll
do it. If she were over thirty, she might. Hardly
at twenty-six. No, she'd have to be over thirty or
under twenty for you to be in any real danger. I
feel better now. I'll have another glass of stout."

In Wilfred's Study afterwards, Alec came tenta-
tively to the main purpose of his visit. The approach
was difScult, because Wilfred asked none of the usual
questions about Gillian. Alec was piqued because his
friend betrayed not the smallest curiosity about her
appearance or character, did not inquire where they
had met, how, or how often. Instead, he talked of
the coming Elections, he made Alec tell him of
Matcham's meeting and Mr. Glaive's intervention.
He had heard fantastic and contradictory rumours
that he was anxious to be able to explain and correct.
He spoke at length on the threatened economic revo-
lution.

** These people can't win," he declared. *'A11 they
can do is to get higher wages, but anything that cuts
deeper than that — ^no. I've mixed a lot with work-
ing people lately, here and in London. When it comes
to any scheme for taking away the money and power
from those who have it, they get suspicious at once.

222 BRUTE GODS

They feel certain ihey won't get the money, you see,
and their idea is that the agitators will. Did you
hear what old Bob Haken said to Matchamt ^Ah,
T)or, an* yuTl spend it, tu; du yu wouldn' goo
a-gittin' on it outer them. Better his owd lordship
had it than yu.' That's it exactly." He spoke with
satisfaction, he was conservative to the bone, though
without a single one of the conservative illusions. His
was the unshakeable conservatism of the sceptic.

Alec, in spite of the divided mind that he brought
to his recital of events on the Oreen, could not help
being struck by Wilfred's evident distaste for
Matcham. When he came to the phrase that had
so obstinately lodged in his brain, his friend caught
him up.

*' * Brute gods,' " he repeated, shortly and coldly.
**No doubt. And no doubt he puts up better ones —
in his mind. What's the good of that to the world t
Once let him and the other fools get started on the
practical construction work, and their new gods will
either dance off into mist or they'll change and be
just as 'brutish' as the old ones."

'*I say — " Alec felt that this interruption had re-
lieved him from the obligation of continuing his ac-
count. ''I didn't tell you that — I mean to say
Gillian's going back to London tonight."

' * Oh, is she t I 'm rather sorry. These things often
last longer when there's separation. Much better
bring it to a head at once. The amount of energy
wasted on this 'reconstruction' talk makes me sick.
All any sensible man needs to do is to take condi-

DISCLOSURES 228

tions as they are and make what he can of them. He
can break the roles if necessary, but he won't waste
his time trying to alter them or talking about break-
ing them, either."

"Well, that was all my stepmother did—broke the
rules — ''

Alec strove, bewildered. — ^Pieces of a puzzle that
wouldn't fit — all this, and the assertive memories of
the place, of Wilfred: while outside of it all was his
determination for Gillian, like a sort of hard funnel
through which everything that came to his mind had
to go.

**My dear boy," — ^Wilfred had paused — ''you know
me well enough to know that I'm not morally in-
dignant about Mrs. Qlaive. I'm only sorry for the
break as it affects you, just as I should be sorry if
you were hurt by any other natural accident. Where
you have marriage you have the other thing. It's
curious when you think of it," — ^he stared medita-
tively, stroking his beard — ^''how much finer, as a
word, 'adultery' is than 'marriage.' Well. I'm no
more indignant with the one than I am with the other.
Take the world as it is, Alec, take the world as it is. "

He leaned back, profoundly unmoral in his com-
plete and impartial acceptance of the moralities to-
gether with every one of their logical implications.
He had spoken in utter sincerity, too, of ''breaking
the rules," out of an individualism which struck from
the same root as his conservatism: an individualism
that was prepared, on need, to run full tilt at any
law or any convention, without abating politic and

224 BRUTE GODS

general support of law and convention by one jot.

^'I don't quite know when I shall be able to see her
again^ of course." Alec carried off the observation
by striking a match.

*'No, I suppose you don't. That move of your
father's was really wonderfully well timed. That'll
keep them quiet for a bit, I'll warrant"

''I wanted to go up to London this week."

'*Yes; well, why not! Lord Yetminster had a per-
fect right, of course. But I don't like to think of
those men tramping all the way round, day after day ;
I know three or four of them quite well. And be-
sides, as your father saw — "

''Perhaps I shall go Tuesday — or Wednesday."

' ' Ah ! Lord Yetminster usually gets what he wants.
Bemember that tussle he had with Sir Hught
Dicky Podd told me. 'Th' owd Squire he went ahid
hully wunnerful. I dunno what he wom't a-goin'
ter du. But du yu howd hard there. — ^When last come
last he couldn' du narthin' along o' his lordship. Th'
owd Squire, he had to set right quiet like a duzzy
fule. Ah, 'bor, yu may be quiet and quite a fule.'
But no doubt your father — "

"I say, Wilfred I You see it's this way, I simply
must get up to London — "

''Motor or train t That reminds me, you know I
haven't had a look at that cycle of yours yet. I
should say there's two hours' solid overhauling work
ahead of us, by the look of it."

"Look here, wait a second." Alec reddened

\

DISCLOSURES 226

furiously^ roshing his words. '^I haven't money to
get to London and I must go."

**For how long!" Wilfred asked placidly.

''Oh— jnst for a day."

''Better make it a week. A day would be too
risky. Twenty pounds would carry you through a
week, travel expenses included, I suppose}" Him-
self the most frugal of men, never guilty of any
extravagance except in buying tools for his motor
workshop, Wilfred Vail ran riot in the excess of his
estimates of other people's expenditures, especially in
travelling by train and staying away from home. He
never did either of these things himself. Between
Suffolk and a suburb of London where his mother had
another house, he invariably motored. "Well!"

"Oh, easily/* Alec had been too delightedly taken
aback to reply at once.

"The Motor Review people sent me eighteen pounds
odd yesterday for articles. So I actually have some-
thing in the Bank, which is lucky or unlucky for you
as the case may be. You shall have a cheque for
twenty pounds three shillings and sevenpence." He
took out one of the four fountain-pens that he carried
— all of them always in perfect order, always with
nibs that shone. "Did you know that your small
change fell out of your trouser-pocket on to my chair
last time you were here! When you're married, you
must be more careful. Three and seven. I'd bought
myself a small present with it already, and you'd
never have got it back if it hadn't been for this cheque

226 BRUTE GODS

that I 'in writing yon now. ' Alexander 't I suppose
'Alexander' is correct, but how very odd.''

**1 say — you know — It really is awfully — ^thanks
awfully.''

''If you've made up your mind to be a fool, you
see, nothing can stop you. And if the worst comes
to the worsty you can pay me back out of the allow-
ance she makes you. Then I shall buy a new lathe.
I've been hesitating over it for some time, but your
marriage will make me reckless." He handed over
the cheque, and Alec, with a beating heart, surveyed
the familiar small neat dear handwriting. "The
stub will be a memento. The stub will often amuse
me.

"Ill— I'll write to you from London."

"Yes, send me a sonnet or two, do. And now for
that filthy grde of yours. You've no idea how much
better it will run. ... Oil and grease," he ruminated
lovingly. "Oil and grease."

They went out Cheque or no cheque, there would
not have been further hint of estrangement from Wil-
fred, The bitter jealous enmity between love and
friendship— bitter because between the temporary
victor and the rival that can wait and win — ^had seldom
been so casually disarmed.

CHAPTER XIX

WHEN he got home late that afternoon Alec
found his Aunt Cathy hovering about the
hally with nervous importance.

**0h, Alec. IVe been waiting. Your father — ^he
wished me to speak — ^he wishes us to have a talk to-
gether." She was deprecating and excited.

''When did he get backf Alec was eager for
that information.

''Oh, a long time ago— a loi£g time.''

"When, exactly."

' ' I couldn 't quite say, Alec ' ' She became secretive
at once, indulging herself with sensational fantastic
conjectures about the motive of the boy's question.

"Oh, surely you must know."

"No, I really can't remember." She pushed out
her lower lip. No doubt Sidney and the boys were
keeping something from her.

"Before luncht"

"I think he was late. I don't know." The wish
for intrigue urged her: it seemed mysteriously im-
portant not to enlighten her nephew.

"But you must know whether he was late or not."
They walked up the stairs.

"I really will not be buUied, Alec, I—"

"Was he at lunch at allt"

"Of course he ate his IuucIl" ^

227

228 BRUTE GODS

Alec gave up. They entered the little room that
Aunt Cathy called her ** boudoir," where she had
to have so much of her own company, which she hated.

''WeU, what is it!''

**I have to take the place of a mother to you now.*'
She sat very erect, reproving his lounging attitude.
''You are making your father very unhappy."

'''Unhappy't Himf"

"We must all try to be especially considerate of
him now. I'm sure your own niceness of feeling
will tell you that. ' '

''All I want is for him to leave me alone!"

"He is very much pained and hurt by your dis-
obedience." Mrs. Mowry was making an effort to re-
member all she had prepared to say, and to say it
in the right order. "Especially at such a time as
this. Now I'm sure, Alec dear, it's only because
you've been thoughtless and unrestrained. You won't
do it again, will you!"

"Do what!"

"You know." Her delicacies obstructed her. The
boy's question seemed unfeelingly gross. "It
wouldn't be nice for us to — to go into any detail, you
know it wouldn't. It would be— coarse."

" Oh, aU right. " He got up.

' ' Alec ! Won 't you promise me t "

"How can I, if you won't sayV" He turned and
examined a framed photograph that stood on her
writing-desk.

' * I mean not to — ^not to run wild. If you 'd just be
quiet — ^and think. These bad girls — "

it

DISCLOSURES 229

'^'BadgirlsM'' He flashed angrily.
The Clark girl—"

Oh, Prippie! Don't worry about her. Who is
thi^ photo t I've never seen it before."

'*0h." Mrs. Mowry dropped her eyes, *'I didn't
mean you to — I've had it put away for a long while.
And you know, it's not only the Clark girl."

''WeU." Alee blushed. Gillian's light quick
figure, all her tingling mobilities, were instantly on
him. **I don't care — "

**You can't wonder at our anxiety, Alec. To have
made a deliberate assignation! — Of course no one
would mind your meeting nice girls, in a nice way."

**Did my father say that she wasn't — ^wasn't
'nice't"

''And then you know— that dreadful man — ^that
wicked man who has done us all such terrible harm
and wrong — "

"Pid he say anythingt"

''It was because of her that that man came down
here to begin with! And every one knows — "

"What did Father say about hert"

"I don't at all like to talk about such things — "

"Why shouldn't you tell me what he said!"

"It shows that there was something quite wrong,
you must see. . . . And you're much too young to
think seriously of — of anytiiing like this, in any case."

Alec looked at her in amazement. "Seriously"!
What a word! But of course she couldn't possibly
know how he — "I want to know what my father
said," he insisted.

280 BRUTE GODS

''Of coarse he was very much distressed. If you'd
been older, and had met her at people's houses, if
you'd had some sort of an understanding, even — but
it seems you'd only seen her once before! No one
could possibly think it right. And just after you
had met that — ^that 'Frippie.' Yes, your father
knows of that And when we remember the — ^the very
queer opinions, and friends, that Miss Collett is known
to haye, we can't help being all the more distressed
and unea^. In a way it makes it all really worse,
her being a — " She could not bring herself to say
''lady." "Her being socially—- well, not of the class
of the girl Clark."

"I should think she wasn'tl" His aunt's words
and phrases began to raffle Alec with their ineptness.
His father "distressed"— Gillian "not of the class"
of Frippie.

"You will end this — ^this foolishness, Alee, wiU
you not! You know you are very dear to us — "
This last expression seemed to her to confirm, fully,
the whole demeanour of her present talk ; Mrs. Mowry
felt herself in full achievement of her new prominence
in the household.

"But, Aunt Cathy, you don't in the least, you
can't — " "Foolishness"! There she was again.
"I say, who's that a photo oft It's a jolly pretty
girL"

Aunt Cathy's tightened mouth pulled jerkily down:
she stammered, her face twitched, then there came
a sob, loud and ungainly in its forcing out from sup-
pression. Alec stood, terribly confased and helpless.

DISCLOSURES 281

He eould not look at her, he was too mudh disturbed
to be puzzled by the effect of his simple observation.
This sadden indecent intrusion of reaUly upon pre-
tence was too much for him.

''It was of—of me/' at length she told him.

**YouI Oh, I say — ^I*m awfully sorry — " He sat
down, still looking away.

''Yes.'' She dried her ^es. "It was taken just
before I was married — ^to give to him." She wanted
to intimate to Alec that her emotion came from the
memory of her husband's untimely death, not from
the thoughts of her own lost fruitless youth and
prettiness. The truth was that the photograph had
been taken when she was a year or so widowed, for
the man to whom she was then engaged. "I'm sure
it was all for the best»" she added.

' ' What was t ' ' Alec half looked up, catching sight
of his aunt's neck, struck by its emphasis of her age.

"Oh, everything. I eould have married again, you
know, Alec." She flushed a little, with pride: even
the worst bitterness of her unconfessed r^rets had
always been touched with pride and a certain excite-
ment.

"Yes, I remember. Why didn't yout"

"It wouldn't have been right. Faithfuhiess is a
great thing, Alec, even after death. If you have
once truly loved, you never can — It wouldn't have
been nice." This was her expression of the idealiza-
tions that had supported her for a quarter of a
century.

Aleo looked at her. She seemed quite different.

282 BRUTE GODS

Her eyes were bright, her month was loosened. ''Of
course — ' * He hesitated, thinking of * ' true love ' ' and
Gillian. If he were to lose Oillian, he would never
marry any one else, of course not. But that wasn't
the same. That photograph — ^Aunt Cathy — . . .

"Queen Victoria . . . what a wonderful example
she gave!" Alec stared, being of" a generation to
which Queen Victoria was nothing. "Your father
was quite rightr— quite."

"Father! What had he to do with it!"

"Why — " Malice and revenge, from under deep
cover, prompted her. "Why, he made me see — ^how
very undesirable — "

' ' He stopped your marrying again when you wanted
to!"

"Oh, not 'stopped.' He made me see. Of course
he did right."

"Good Lord!" Alec passionately resolved that he
would never let his father make him see anything.
"Why, he married twice himself!"

"Ah, and see what's come of it!"

"He didn't really — It wasn't fair! It was just
like him!"

"Oh, you mustn't say that. We mustn't — "
She could not help being consciously gratified.

"And you'd only been married for two or three
weeks — "

"But it was marriage. Alec."

Her outward intention was to stress the enduring
sanctity of a marriage that might be only of an hour:
inwardly she fostered her pride in not being an old

DISCLOSURES 288

maid. This pride was constant. If any one called
her **Miss" she never forgave him.

They sat silent. Alec, out of his new emotions of
that morning, felt sorry for her. He felt indignant
and helpless. He thought of Mervyn, in association.
He reproached himself with lack of sympathy for
Mervyn and Dolly. He had been just as unsympa-
thetic there as Wilfred Vail had been for him. After
all, what did he know about Dolly ! Mervyn — Here,
too, his father stood, baulking and evil, a thing to
harm them all, spoil every one's life, bite it up, if
he could. It was what he had done, and he'd go on.
His guilt gathered weight. Alec's anger against his
father rose again, with the same cold force.

** You will see things in the right light. Alec, won't
you! You will be true to your conscience!"

''Ill— oh, I don't know what I'll do!" He got
up. "Is Mervyn int"

''But, Alec—"

'*I want to see him. I must go, really."

* * And you won 't promise — t ' '

He left, closing the door gently. ''Conscience."
The word rang memories of childhood. It had always
suggested some offensive insect — "still" and "small."
"I should have thought your conscience would have
told you." — ^Mervyn didn't seem to be in the house. —
Alec, opening the side-door, heard him in the region
of the stables:

"She's a la-ady,
She has a daughter
Whom I adore — "

y

284^ BRUTE GODS

The young man broke off, and started hamming the
tone, wandering away with his baek to the approach-
ing Alec

'*I say, Mervyn — "

''Hnlloa, what are you up tot You're a nice kid.
I say, you have been going it"

"Have you si>oken to the guv 'nor yet about — you
know — ^about you and — t"

''Oh, I spoke aU right. So did he."

*'What did he say!"

''Wanted to know if we'd both gone nutty. Said
he was beginning to think he was in charge of a lunatic
allium."

"What did you— t"

"Oh, he was hopeless. I saw that at once. It's
your fault, too, why the devil did you want to go and
get cobbed t I didn't know he'd cobbed you, or of
course I wouldn't have — ^but it wouldn't have been any
good, anyhow. I knew that, really." He sat down
on a bench in a comer of the stable.

"Well, but can't you— t Good Lord, it'ft— "

' ' Oh, don 't get so damned excited. What can / do t
He went on six to the dozen. 'Won't hear of it' —
'My old friend. Dr. Besine.' Said I'd be tearin' the
last shreds of the family honour. Started taUdn'
about Dolly, too, but I shut him up there."

* ' But he can 't stop you. Why didn 't you say you 'd
made up your mindt"

' ' Oh, confound you, don 't you begin now. How the
deuce can I marry Dolly on twopence-halfpenny a
yeart I had to agree not to go back to Oxford, that's

DISCLOSURES 285

all I got out of it. Lord, he said he'd stop that
cheque; he would have, too."

''Let him. Look here, IVe got some money.''
Alee felt powerful, with that cheque of Wilfred's in
his pocket. ''Ill share it with you. Let's both go
up to London and be free of him for good. We could
get some kind of work — "

"How much have you gott" Mervyn asked scep-
tically.

"Twenty pounds.-"

"What the hell's the good of twenty poiindst"

"Well. He didn't stop that hundred, did he t You
could get it through at once."

"Who gave you twenty pounds!"

"Vail dijcL Lent it. I'm going to London, you
come too, and — "

"Oh, but you see, I agreed — '*

"What, you don't mean to say you agreed to marry
Nita!"

"Oh, damn it all, don't cross-examine me like a
blasted lawyer. I didn't exactly." Mervyn began
humming again.

"I don't see why, if you really care about Dolly — "

"What are you after, anyhow t Another elope-
mentt Oad, that would be too damn funny 1"

"Oh, of course, if you want to laugh — "

"Why shouldn't It It's no go, that's what it is,
you might as well laugh. He's got me, he knows that.
I don't care, I shall manage to see something of Dolly
all right, you bet your life. 'Mrs. Dra-ake,' " he half
sang, " 'She's a la-ady. She has a daughter. Whom I

286 BRUTE GODS

adore. ' Fancy your bein ' struck on that Collett gal, * *
he added indiflferently.

Alec looked at his brother with a new sharpening
of perception. He realized how little dominance of
will or spirit there was in him now. Yet he hadn't
always been like that. When the war was on, and be-
fore he had got into it, he was different. Had his
spirit been used too hard, used up, which was the
same, in result, as being broken t Alec, without
phrasing his thoughts, had glimpse of the pos-
sibility of disintegration of will and spirit by violence,
by excess of effort terrifically sustained in the midst
of all that unnatural choking abundance of death
and torture ; he understood, though vaguely, the isola-
tion of himself and all those who, like himself, had
been bom too late for that call on spirit and will.
. . . Mervyn went on with his humming and half-
singing. Alec knew what he would say, if he pressed
him further. "What's the tiset'' "Anything for a
quiet life." The boy hardened under his brother's
acquiescence. He knew now that he'd have to do
everything by himself, everything important.

"Do you know what the guv 'nor saidt" Mervyn
remarked suddenly. "He said it didn't really matter
much who you married, not after the first year. That
if you were anything of a man, you'd make her the
right wife for you by then, whatever she was to start
with. Queer idea, whatt I suppose there may be
something in it."

"Oh, he's never been in love, how could he bet"

DISCLOSURES 287

''Well, I suppose lie meant that after the first year
ihai would be all done with — ^I wonder!"

' ' It wouldn 't ! If you 're really in love it lasts for
ever, I know it does!"

"Yes, it does feel that way. Don't see how you
know, though, kid like you. Must be time for supper.
That's the guv 'nor nosin' about by the shrubbery.
Let's clear out. Damn funny how one gets to hate the
sight of one's guv 'nor, isn't itt Come along."

*'I want to talk to him."

''Christ, I don't I" Mervyn sheered oflf.

Alec, walking to the shrubbery, felt convincingly
that he had given his father his chance, and that his
father had deliberately rejected it. He did not see
that, with Mr. Glaive, there could never have been
any real question of a "chance," any question of con-
scious rejection or acceptance — ^at this set time of his
life, least of all. The boy, as he approached, played
unwitting comedy in his irresistible sense of being a
judge who had passed sentence.

"Well?" Mr. Glaive screwed up his eyes at him.
He thought his demeanour astonishingly insolent.

"I want to go to London this week."

"Oh, indeed."

"Yes. I'm going to London."

"I do not allow you to go."

"All right, then."

"Do you mean you defy me? I shall not give you
one penny — ^not a farthing. I 've had enough of this. ' '
The man's colour drained slowly out.

288 BRUTE GODS

''You 're not the only person I can get money
from."

^'Oh, I seel I might have expected that. Wil-
liams and his gang, they're bent on dishonouring my
name to the utmost I They're using you against me,
and you can lend yourself to it!"

'^WiUiams— t"

^'That woman is a — a friend, let us say, of his,
don't you know that!"

''I don't care if she is!" Alec missed the impli-
cation.

*'If you go, you won't come back."

''Oh! D'you think I want tot"

''You admit she gave you money T^'

"I shan't teU you."

"It is outrageous. I will not have it. You're
under age. I — ^I shaU appeal to Mr. Collett. Of
course I know perfectly well why you want to go to
London. Didn't your aunt tell you that it was en-
tirely on that woman's account that Williams first — "

"What did you say to — ^to her!"

"It ought to be enough for you, the knowledge
of that association. That should settle the matter
absolutely. If you had any sort of regard for me, any
sense of the family reputation, any moral sense — "

"What did you say to her!"

"How dare you take such a tone, sir!"

Mr. Olaive looked sharply at his son's vivid stiff-
ened face. He turned away. His anger and vanity
and jealousy began to give ground before the ap-
proach of a new attacking force: he laboured un-

DISCLOSURES 289

easily in the thonght of the new hnmiliation that
snch a breach with Alec wonld bring on him. The
connection with Miriam — a connection terribly, in-
decently close— disgrace upon disgrace. And here
was AleCy silent, obstinate. They wonld finance him,
no donbt . . . anything to feed their malice . • .
against him . . . how grossly wicked I

''Yon are yonr own enemy." The father changed
his tone, which became grave and reasoned, and con-
trolled. ''I should not be fair to yon, I shonld be
n^lecting my responsibility, if I did not point that
out. I do not speak of your duty to me. That, I
know, you do not regard, not at this moment. Later,
you will. No Glaive could ever — ^you will be sorry
that you — '* His voice broke artfully.

''You haven't told me what she said to you."

"It is a question of your duty to yourself, it's a
question of your career.'* He intenedfied the word
piously. "Is this a good beginning, Alec — I put it
to you merely on the grounds of common sense — ^is it
beginning well to make a break with your home, to
defy your father, your father who has supported and
helped and counselled and — " his voice dropped,
"loved you all these long yearst" Carried high on
the flow of his idea of himself, he spoke with perfect
sincerity.

"Did you try to persuade hert"

"I should never act in any way but for your in-
terest. I never have, as you well know." Olaive
b^an again to twitch with jealotufy of his son and
the girl whom he had driven into Malstowe that mom-

240 BRUTE GODS

ing. The absence of his wife had begun to harass
him. Alec must not go to London. ''As to my con-
versation with Miss CoUett — " Glaive resolved to be
tactful: he would even, in a dignified way, be
propitiatory. * ' As to that — ' '

*'WeU!''

''There is nothing to tell you." He paused, with
the boy's steady demanding eyes upon him. What
audacity! When he had made him!^ His sonl
Thank Qod that Mervyn — Recalling his triumph
over Mervyn, "You don't imagine," he went on with
a familiar swing of sarcasm that reassured him at
once, "you don't imagine, do you, that when a woman
of her age makes an assignation with a schoolboy the
first time she sees him — ^well, there wouldn't be much
she could say to his father, would there t"

"Tou mean that you didn't talk about me at allt"

"She was clever enough, experienced enough, not
to, and I think I know when to speak and when not to
speak. — ^Now, Alec.'- He remembered his tact.
"We've all been under a dreadful strain. Action and
reaction. I quite allow for that. I understand, only
too weU, the terrible infiuence of example. One evil
act. The loosomng of one bond in a family may
threaten the loosening of all. We have to stand to-
gether. As you know, it's not only you I've had
to deal with. This trouble with Mervyn and some
shady little milliner's apprentice, coming on the very
heels of—"

"Look outi"

"You are not yourself, Alec. I can't regard either

n

DISCLOSURES 241

of you as responsive. But at least Mervyn came to
me, he made a cl^dn, breast of it, and he ended by see-
ing things in^^ right light.''

^'He didyt! Why did you stop Aunt Cathy mar-
rying again f

**What/lo you meant" Mr. Glaive's eye shot
angrily. *^She told you that?"

"I know you did."

''Then disabuse yourself of so — so preposterous a
notion. Your aunt has always been a perfectly free
agent" He determined, viciously, to speak to
Catherine. She must have said something. ''My
advice was given for the best — in a matter of which
you can know nothing. A matter which it would be
most unbecoming in me to discuss with you or with
any one."

Glaive jerked his head impatiently, and started
walking back to the house. Alec walked with him,
silent, unbelieving. His thoughts of his father's self-
ish <sruelties, as he saw them, lacked light of older
knowledge. He could not realize that Glaive, like
your Oriental potentates, found it necessary for his
convenience and comfort to have eunuchs about him :
the boy could not be expected to appreciate the moral-
ity of this predilection which placed his father in such
essential support of a society whose rules decree the
unsexing of a certain chance few. Nor could Mr.
Glaive be expected to explain the matter to him.

So they walked on without speaking. Mr. Glaive's
thoughts turned almost at once from his immaterial
sister. The prospect of letting Alec go to Gillian

242 BRUTE GODS

CoUett in London was tormentingly bitter: and why
should he, why should hef Who wouldn't be on his
side there — ^a father — t But he had to face the fact
that if there were a clear break, that would be worse,
every one would see it, all eyes would be freshly on
him, he knew how. Alec must not go, flouting him:
a double calamity, hitting both his jealousy and his
self-esteem. He must use all his skill to prevent his
son seeing that he was prepared to give way. Surely
Alec wouldn't really go so far. ... If only that un-
principled impudent clever wench hadn't given him
money! How could he take it? No pride. . . . And
what obstinacy, what cursed obstinacy! That he
should be at the mercy of this young mule! Cath-
erine must have been to blame, somehow: if she had
had anything to do with it, if she had got herself
mixed up in her silly way, he'd pretty soon —
Glaive's mind struck out in febrile search for some^
thing to help him — some implement. He felt gravely
wronged by a system that gave nothing to his need.
There should have been something, it reflected on the
general morality that there was not. His sense was
that at that moment he ought to have been able to
call down a thunderbolt from heaven.

'*You have your work to do for Oxford," he an-
nounced with a forced mildness. ''This week you
were to start coaching with Mr. Braithwaite. You
have to pass Smalls, haven't youY"

'"Smalls'?" Alec half -grunted, halMaughed.
The emergences of resemblance between his father and
Aunt Cathy were comic. Alec felt, tickling down his
back, the ineptitude of this anticlimax*

CHAPTER XX

DEATH, with its familiar intervention at an
awkward haphazard, its familiar accidental
wantonness, chose this time. It came up to
Alec ont of nothing, and addressed itself to him forth-
with as an incomparable fact.

The boy, who could no more take that fact than he
could have taken the values of ^schylus or Michael
Angelo, almost at once ran off from it, with queer
brain-buzzings, with specked quiverings of the vistas
of his feelings. The tragedy's visible first effect was
to make him pull his valise from under the bed and
pack it, with a dispatch that was orderly and directed ;
indeed, of a meticulous direction unusual to him. He
folded each necktie. His mind was traversed by
memories of his old nurse, memories of a Malstowe
boy with whom he used to go out rat-catching when he
was about twelve, schoolday memories, obscene jokes,
snatches of poetry. . . . *'Down the all-golden
waterways. Its feet flew after yesterday's. . . ."
"Its feet"! ''His feet"! Which was it! 'Tear
no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's
rages. ..." His nurse used to say it wasn't the
wearing the neckties that wore them out, it was the
tying them. "That girl's gone and put three
blankets on my bed in the middle of the summer, why,
I shouldn't need more at Christmas !" Alec reflected

243

244 BRUTE GODS

on the certainly of his never forgetting those obser-
vations so long as he lived. What was the reason for
his remembering them so faithfully, so accurately,
with the intonation of each word f There was nothing
round them, nothing else that he conld remember.
. . . An accident — chance — ^no reason, no meaning.
That last day at school, the farewell Chapel Serviee :
"Those returning, those returning, Make more faith-
ful than before." Hudson major, with his great ugly
face, singing lustily. *' Faithful"! Aunt Cathy
believed in being faithful, that was why. . . .

But he would not think of Aunt Cathy, nor of
Mervyn, nor of his father, nor of — He tried hard
to think of Gillian, he couldn 't see her, everybody else
was more real, that wasn't right, why should they
bet Suppose it had been Gillian who had diedt A
person dying seemed to make everything so awfully
unsafe, somehow. He must, must, must go at once.
All the more. This determination, sprung from his
passion, and already rivalling its dominance, now,
under the shock of death, almost replaced it. His
recklessness was intensified. Tonight he'd be in
London. ... He went on packing, less carefully,
impatiently: he knocked some things on to the floor,
he hurried over to the washstand to get his tooth-
powder. Dr. Resine must have been in a hurry the
evening before. Dr. Besine thought such a lot of him-
self, he — Alec burst out laughing. The old doctor,
with his fat paunch stuck out, he must have been
strutting round all over the place, fussing and fum-
ing and keeping up his dignity. And all the while

DISCLOSURES 245

the guy 'nor, in the diningroom; talking, talking, talk-
ing rot. . . . Alec sat on the bed, laughing violently.
What made it so specially fanny was his father not
knowing about Dr. Besine, and Dr. Besine not know-
ing about his father; the comic separateness of the
two men and of their actions.

What had happened was that on the yesterday
evening Mr. Sidney Starr Qlaive, well launched at
last on his postponed discourse, doing his best with
it, had rejected the interruption of a request from
his old friend and near neighbour, the doctor. When
there came a tap at the door,' he was in the dramatic
midst of his exposure of moral issues, both in their
larger significances that trailed heavenwards, and in
their dispensed application to the recent domestic
event : he was engaged, skill at full stride, in putting
this domestic event in its final place for himself and
his family, and as God saw it. The tap enraged him.

He had darted to the door and flung it open.

"You knew you were none of you to come, on any
pretext I ' *

"Yes, sir, very sorry, sir, but it's Dr. Besine 's
chauffeur, and he say as how the car hey broke down,
and heVe a case he fare to hev to goo to at once and
please might he borrow — t"

"Tell the man he's to wait a few minutes." Mr.
Glaive slammed the door.

This annoyance hurt the rest of his harangue, and
prolonged it. Those right words that he had had so
well in hand for implication of reproof to Alec and
Mervyn went awry: he had to go back to them and

246 BRUTE GODS

pull them straight. But his delayed peroration made
amends: ''Our union as a family is now, I am con-
vinced, more real than ever it was. We see now that
there could have been no real union before this thing
happened. Our very foundations were being secretly
sapped : the fount of our being was all the while de-
filed by the poison of a living lie. Those fair well-
springs of our life — ^they had become 'A cistern, for
foul toads to knot and gender in.' It is better that
we should know, as we know now. The blow has
struck hard, but in the very force of its stroke it has
welded us firmly. From now on we speak no more
of it: we hold fast, and we hold together."

'*Amen," whispered Mervyn, and Alec, under the
reassertion of long association, had to strive against
a giggle. Chairs scraped, and again there was a tap
at the door.
**What do you want now!"
''Please, sir. Dr. Eesine's chauffeur — "
"Oh, yes, yes. Can't the man wait a minute or
two f I suppose I shall have to — Most inconvenient.
It can't be an important patient, or they'd have sent
Besine a car of their own. Mervyn, you come with
me and see about this."

It was not till the next day, the Monday, that
Alec learnt just how unimportant the patient had
been. Dr. Resine had arrived "a minute or two" too
late; Frippie Clark and her premature child were
dead. She was not in her home, but with an aunt
who lived somewhat further from Dr. Resine 's house.
Her father had so contrived it, out of a shame quick-

DISCLOSURES 247

ened by his continual association at the time with his
idol, Joe Matcham.

The young married woman, their former servant
Elsie, who had been hanging about near the Glaives'
on purpose, gave Alec this information. ''Owd Jos
Clark," she had said, **he's fair siammed/^ — Suffolk
for ''bowled over." "What do you think of her
nowf" was what she looked, but Alec gave her no
satisfaction, and she had to relapse compensatingly
upon her natural rustic elation at a mortal catastrophe,
and upon the prospect of sombre and startling gossip
in detail about the affair with the Glaive servants.
With Mr. Alec she had to leave out so much! But
feminine delicacy would of course cease to be an
obstacle in feminine company.

"He do take it rare hard, pore man. He say he
won't be able to look Joe Matcham i' th' face no
more!"

Alec, at that, had made a sound of contemptuous
impatience like a suppressed sneeze. "Oh, well! I
must — So long, Elsie!" He left her disappointed
and surprised ; she had had only a few scant minutes.

The boy had gone straight to his room. On the
way his first thoughts were of his own guilt, not of
his father's. "I never got her those grapes. I never
met her that morning. She may have died because
of that!" She must have worried about the grapes,
he knew she must have. He'd begun it, and his father
had finished — ^finished her off. He'd wanted to kill
his father, now he had helped with his father in kill-
ing this girl. His father's talk ... he had talked the

248 BRUTE GODS

girl to death. Alec was not at all occupied by sur-
prise either at Frippie's having a chQd or at his own
so recent ignorance of that prospect. Such things
happened to village girls who were not ** careful";
they mighty so he felt, happen at any time; it could
never have occurred to him that he might be expected
to know beforehand. It was not that he was more
'innocent" than most boys of his age and class:
it was simply that '^ having a child" was not a real
concept to him.

Suddenly, while opening the door of his room, he
thought of how he had kissed Frippie, only the other
day. He was whelmed in uncomprehended horror,
his thoughts stampeded from her: it was then that
he took out his valise, with those buzzings and quiver-
ings in his brain, while the memories so foreign to
the dead girl came on him vivid in a rush, and held
him safe.

Only once again before he left the house did he think
of the death which had hastened his leaving. Fasten-
ing the straps of his valise, for a moment he ques-
tioned: '* Ought I to go so soon?" but he did not
stay to answer. He went quickly downstairs and put
on his hat and coat. He was not either conscious
enough or sentimental enough to think that ''down
the all-golden waterways" Death's feet had flown,
or to entertain reflections on what might have been
viewed as a step over the eotSn of his first love to her
successor. Tet she had been his first love, this ill-
starred little village strumpet : if she had been merely
light to him, his thoughts could have touched her

DISCLOSURES 249

without that shrinldiig ; he would not have had to go
away at onee.

He knocked at his father's Study door. ^'I'm go-
ing to London now/' he said.

"JVtwf" Mr. Glaive was unprepared, bafiSed.
Taken thus, he could not help looking as he felt,
really frightened. "Whent How do you think you
are going}"

''I can walk to the village and get a trap to the
Station."

"Oh, for heaven's sake don't do thatl What will
people think! Alee, I — " He confronted his son
for an instant, time enough for him to realize the
uselessness of any appeal. But, perhaps — "Will
you not at least listen to Mr. CoUett 1 ' '

"No, I don't want to see him, I couldn't see him — "

"He will be very much hurt if you don't. I wrote
to him yesterday." Mr. Glaive looked at his watch.
"I feel sure he'll be up soon, he would hardly come
very much later than now."

"I can't see him. I didn't go to hear his sermon
yesterday. ' '

"I must say this is hardly the time to be frivolous.
Your good taste, at least — "

' * What did you write to him t When do you think
hell be here!" Alec looked apprehensively out of
the window.

"I said nothing but that I was in trouble about
you; that I wished very earnestly that he would see
fit to use his influence. I asked him to come as soon
as he could today. ' '

250 BRUTE GODS

''He wouldn't make any difference. I must go.''
Alec turned the door-handle.

"Well— one minute. I must, really, demand of you
one minute. I may be doing wrong," he went on
in an authoritative tone, ''but I have now decided that
the best way is to let you learn by experience. It
is the only school. Any other father, of course —
But I have never been the conventional father. My
ideas do not run along the usual — er — ^grooves. Do
you need money! I'll not refuse it you, you shall
have it!" Mr. Glaive whipped out his purse. His
eyes glistened, he was exhilarated. A gesture like
that, at such a time, it was superb! What other
father. . . .t Alec was surprised. Qood. "Yes, I
would give you money."

"Thanks, I have enough, though."

"As you will." Having made that large gesture,
Glaive was content to be relieved of its material con-
sequences. He was still regretting, at intervals, hav-
ing given a whole hundred to Mervyn. "You know
I have always — Well. Perhaps you would be good
enough" — ^he spoke with a tinge of his suaver sar-
casm — "to tell Marshall to get out the two-seater and
drive you to the Station?"

"All right. If you'd rather." Alec was chafing,
with continual glances out on to the drive.

"And one more thing. If I may suppose that you
still have some fragment of natural consideration left
for me? I don't want unnecessary talk. As a — ^h'm
— as a matter of simple convenience, I shall say you
^e staying with a schQol-friend. Tq avoid misunder-

DISCLOSURES 251

standing in the neighbourhood — particularly desir-
able at this time, you under9tandf I wish to have a
gentleman's agreement with you.''

''Oh, all right."

*' Good-bye," said Mr. Qlaive, with the right meas-
ure of coldness and restraint.

Alone, he suppressed the twinges of his jealous
moral indignation, though they threatened a special
acuteness because Gillian, deliberately committing and
binding herself, had told him that she would not
under any circumstances marry Alec. . . . The father
reflected that his way of dealing with the affair was
much the best and wisest. No talk now, no fuss.
And Alec wouldn't stay long, surely he couldn't stay
long. ... By calling loudly to mind the pretence that
Alec was to stay with a school-friend, Mr. Glaive
began almost to believe it.

Meanwhile the boy, after giving Marshall his orders
and having come back for the valise, caught sight of
the figure of Father CoUett, very black and large,
approaching up the drive. He had forgotten him.
He hesitated, then went out to meet 'him, with the
valise in his hand.

''You're going away!" The priest looked grave,
not surprised.

' ' Yes. I say, I wanted to tell you, I 'm awfully sorry
I didn't come yesterday — ^you know — ^to hear you — "

"Oh. Never mind."

"What — what happened t"

' * Nothing happened, my dear boy. ' '

"Nothing! But you were going to—"

252 BRUTE GODS

*'I did. All sermons are alike to them. I kept
my promise, Alec. " They tamed back together down
the drive.

' ' I wish I 'd been there. ' ' The boy blushed.

**Tou are in lovet"

Alec nodded.

''With Gillian, then!"

**Tes, I am.''

*'Tou're going away now to — ^to see her!"

*'Tes."

* ' Well. ' ' A deep shadow of pain was on the priest's
face. ''It may be better. I think it is better. All
this may mean — in the end. ..." He broke off,
wrought out of his words. "I mean that it shows
the difference in you from others, and that gives me
my hope." Alec moved nearer, he could hardly hear
him. "You will be drawn, later, with the same force,
to another, end. You have not, now, that same
hatred?"

* ' No. No, it 's not the same. ' '

"Ah I She took that av^ay. It was she who did
that."

"I hadn't thought, exactly. I suppose so."

"Well." Father CoUett breathed hard. "All is
by His will. — ^Alec, I am resigning the living."

' ' Father ! Why t Please don 't— ' '

"I can't stay. There is a death to my charge."

"A death!"

"I told you, last time, about that girl. If I had
advised the marriage — "

"Oh, it was her, then; I didn'1

99

(I

DISCLOSURES 268

**Tou know she is dead."

**Yes, but that — It was my fault, and hisi"

''Yonrfaultl"

''Because I didn't want her any more, because I
didn't meet her, because I forgot her and made her
unhappy. ' '

* * It was I who made her unhappy. God turns our
wisdom into folly, and breaks us on it"
It's brutal of him, then!"

No. We are blind." They stopped, standing at
the gate.

*'Love is brutal, tool"

**Ah, yes, oursJ'

' ' It might have happened anyhow. It would have. ' '

''No, no, she would not have suffered. It would
all have been different."

Alec stood, wondering. That the three of them
should have combined to kill her. . . . Who had taken
and used them for this, and whyf He could not
blame his father now, not heavily.

"The life of the world is sad, and unbeautiful. —
I have been thinking of resigning for some time. Alec:
it was really only because of you that I stayed. Now,
there is nothing else for me to do but to go. Qoi
has shown me: it was a sign, the girl's death. And
the sermon. I speak here to deaf ears."

"Couldn't you stay, though, just a little longer!"
Alec was seized with that same capricious teasing
wish to turn the priest's will.

"No. I would not. I have already written to the
bishop."

254 BRUTE GODS

''Where will you got"

"To Webley. I shall join the Order. It's not
really such a sudden decision, Alec. For some while,
as I said, I — " He was looking on the ground, and
then suddenly raised bright eyes to the boy — eyes of
a peculiar defenceless shining. ' **You will write to
met Very soon, I mean. I feel I must hear — I
believe in you. Alec."

* * Well, but — You can 't be going at once. ' '

''No. As soon as I can, though. I don't know.
I hadn't thought of the time. How long will you
be with — ^be away!"

"I don't know either." The two-seater car ap-
proached them.

"You will write, you will tell me everything?"

"Oh, yes," said Alec vaguely as he took the priest's
hand.

Father CoUett, looking after the receding car, felt
that he could forgive, perhaps all too easily, Alec.
He could not forgive Gillian, nor himself.

CHAPTER XXI

MH. CARLYON-WILLIAMS, that Saviour of
a crushed life, had left the object of his
salvation in Torquay, and was himself now
returned to London. He found it easier to think up
to his ideals of the situation at a distance from it:
besides, those last days in Torquay had begun to be a
little trying. It was not so easy, he found, to sustain
the right role with a constant audience of one, and
Miriam sometimes had strange moods. His profound
understanding of women, together with his sensitive
reaction to the claims of his convenience, had prompted
him to leave her for awhile. He had parted from her
with the utmost tenderness, a tenderness adequately
enough expressed to deserve incorporation in his next
novel. She had been very silent, though — ^very: her
response would not do for the novel at aU.

One afternoon a week or so after Alec's departure
for London, the distinguished author was sitting in
a Club named by literary modesty **The Scribblers',"
giving the final touch to one of his articles for The
Woman's Republic. At intervals he would keep as-
sembling his equipment for confirmation of himself
in the role that he now was playing, with the assur-
ance of a much more habitual practice, for an audi-
ence of many. He had passed through a great ex-
perience, a spiritual experience of fine flight through

the arena of the higher moralities. His next novel

255

256 BRUTE GODS

would be devoted to the exposition of that winged
way. He might call it that— ''The Winged Way"—
only how could he indicate, on the cover, that
''-Winged" was to be given two syllables t "Winjf'd
Way" wouldn't do. . . . "The Release of— of"—
ah, ^^Sabriria" — ^that was splendid, because Sabrina
had been beneath the tides. ' ' The Release of Sabrina
Wycherly." — ^" Sabrina 's Release." — Better. More
distinctive. He took a bit of paper from his pocket
and jotted the title down. "Winged way," too: he
would bring that in.

Mr. Carlyon- Williams looked at his hands. They
were delicate and white. He had just been washing
them. Hands indicated so much: he had certainly
improved the look of his by squeezing juice from a
lemon upon them every night. Now he would be able
to do, that again. Since he had been with Miriam
he had had to forego the lemon-juice. The odour of
it was noticeable, besides he couldn't have risked her
seeing. ... A great experience. Washing his hands
in the Club Lavatory, he had looked at himself
earnestly in the glass. His good looks had not been
affected at all; not unfavourably, that is. They
seemed to have been heightened, rather, to something
indefinably better and nobler. This was as it should
be : for Mr. Carlyon-Williams 's expressed philosophy
largely lay in a steadfast belief in himself and every
one else on his horizon being better and nobler than
they really were. Every gesture of his, every tone
of his voice, even the way he brushed his pleasantly
curling hair, betokened this philosophy.

DISCLOSURES 257

Miriam, though. ... He could not make her fit,
except by difficulties that were really awkward, into
his scheme. Leaning back in his chair, with his manu-
script on his knee, he frowned slightly, the gaze of his
artificially fine eyes was clouded, his uncontrolled
mouth, thin-lipp'd, with its look of emotional esuri-
ence, twitched a little. Not for the first time in his
life was he ruffled and disconcerted by the fact that
women, as soon as you got on really serious terms
with them, never behaved as you had planned that they
should, never said the things that you had, so to
speak, written for them. Not even the women who
had been his most whole-hearted disciples, the most
ardent admirers of his work. His wife, for instance.
Bhe had disappointed him the most of all. If she
had really been so enthusiastic over his novels, the
least she could have done was to behave something
like the people in them. Of course the great mistake
there had been the child — ^the intrusion of the child.
A mistake he would never repeat. It was true that
the amours of his fiction characters were never rudely
complicated by the coming of children, they were al-
ways mysteriously enriched. Still, the love of the
artist himself should be sterile.

Mr. Carly on-Williams 's career as a husband had
been cut short rather more than a year ago. Be-
sponsibilily for the breach rested entirely with his
wife's singular failure to realize the susceptibilities
of his temperament. He had found it impossible to
stay with her during her confinement : it was terrible
to this expert in spiritual suffering to come within

258 BRUTE GODS

the grosser ranges of physical pain. The man who
had celebrated the sacred mysteries of motherhood in
half-a-dozen novels was driven post-haste to the
Biviera by the prospect of his wife's initiation: he
could not but deprive himself of attendance upon all
the poetical and holy circumstances that wait on the
miracle of the birth of a child. When he had re-
turned the house was closed. Mrs. Garlyon-Williams
had gone to live with her mother; from that time on
she had refused to see him.

Nearly half -past five. He must finish revising that
article. She would soon be there for it. Now why
exactly was Gillian coming, why did she want to,
what did it meant He had offered to send the article
to her Office; he had had a certain delicacy about
meeting her again so soon, he had even avoided this
Club of which they both were members. But **0h,
I may as well come," she had said: ''I rather want
to see you." Mr. Williams, pondering, wished she
had said that with a different intonation. The words,
even over the telephone, might have been given some
undercurrent, so many kinds of undercurrents.
There might have been a hint of something, a nuance,
something secret and subtle. He now, even in the few
outwardly unimportant things he had said to her. . . •
She had always been unfeminine, had Qillian: but
even the most vauntedly unfeminine women were not
unfeminine to him, if they were attractive; he saw to
that. At least, there was the fact: she wanted to see
him. And no doubt her tone was merely a blind,
she had protected herself by it. Well, he would be

DISCLOSURES 259

dignified and aloof, she had treated him very badly,
and now his affair with Miriam had made her think
better of it. Perhaps now. . . . Mr. Williams re-
solved to be on the look-out. And he would be care-
ful to hold by his present advantage over her; she
deserved that he should. . . . Oh, but she had been
cold and heartless! Beally, he should never have
risked being involved with her, why had he! He
meditated, then found the answer: of course she had
wanted to pick his brains. So she had led him on,
deceiving him through his love of beauty.

Ah, he was too easily exposed to beauty, that was
it. Miriam ... he must write to Miriam tonight.
A pity that it was not so easy or so exciting to write
to her now as it had been when he was only her half-
acknowledged lover. But his last words to her had
been that he would write every day. How unfortu-
nate — again he was ruffled — that when he had prom-
ised this he had called her ' ' Gillian. ' ' The two names
were in a way alike — ^not an unnatural slip : and some-
how the parting and the promise to write had re-
minded him of Gillian. Heaven knew the two women
were sufficiently unlike, though. ... At least Miriam
was womanly. It, was indeed, her unquestionable
womanliness that had drawn him so profoundly : a re-
action from Gillian's abruptness, her challenging ways,
her casualness, her half -mocking air of being on equal
terms, her habit of taking everything for granted,
as though there could be nothing between them that
really mattered. Miriam was tender and serious, she
had the true romantic depths, her appeal was in the

260 BRUTE GODS

names of Protection and Pity. How healing she had
been to him after Gillian's rebnfib! GiUian, who
had' so crudely tripped up his lovemaking by telling
him that he "didn't amuse her, not in that way."
Actually, when he had come down specially to Mal-
stowe, for the week when she was to be there, she
had said that. "Oh, Carl, you mustn't, I'm only
hvmant'^ was what she should have said. As it was,
of course everything was over — and almost immedi-
ately there had followed the revelation of Miriam
Glaive. Miriam of course was very wonderful. . . .
Confound that girl, she had put him out of gear, she
had brought it all back, he didn't want to see her,
his delicacy had prompted him rightly. Perhaps she
had telephoned to him out of deliberate malice and
mischief. Still, it might be that she ... it might
be. . . . He set himself to the article.

CHAPTER XXII

WHENy a few minutes later, he was consciouB
of Gillian, Mr. Carlyon-Williams con-
tinued his task without looking up. She
was almost at his elbow before he raised his eyes.
He gave a little start, he was mildly taken aback,
then he rose, faintly smiling, as though she had
brought him up to the surface of a deep dream.

''I hope I may say— 'Well meW

"I don't know why you shouldn't. Have you
done with thisf

She put out her hand for the manuscript. He
watched her with gravity well poised, and was glad
to see that she seemed a little nervous.

''There are still the last paragraphs. But I
think they can stand." He bestowed the article upon
her. "We might — ^perhaps — as you wished to see
me." They moved to a more secluded comer. It
was one of the less frequented upstairs rooms of the
Club, and now, in August, practically deserted. Mr.
Carlyon-Willams, prompted by his susceptibilities,
remained standing. "You still have the hands of a
Tanagra statuette, ' * — ^his voice was low — ' ' a statuette
of pale bronze."

"No new tricks since I last saw you!"

" 'Tricks'!" He drew back, aggrieved. "It has
not been a time for tricks — ^new or old. ' '

261

262 BRUTE GODS

^'Oh, that's just what I should have thought it had
been. New an<2 old. You don't think I remember!"

''Ah, you were always determined to misunder-
stand!"

She had attacked him at once, she must be in love
with him! Mr. Carlyon- Williams trusted in the
literary rule of thumb that a woman never attacks
a man unless she's either in love with him or so much
piqued by him that it amounts to practically the same
thing. ** Don't you think I remember?" she had
said : she had taken him back to that time of theirs. . . •
Of course she was reacting from his capture of Miriam.
He gave her one of his deep looks. Certainly she was
on edge — ^not quite controlled. He could tell by her
lips. Their disdainful flicker had both excited and
affronted him : now he was affronted no longer.

''Since our last meeting — " He lowered his voice
again, he meant to be a little cruel. "Since then, I
have voyaged very far."

"Have you! Ah, you mean spiritually, of course.
At least I haven't misunderstood you there — ^I
couldn't." Her laugh discomposed him: it was not
in the right tone.

"You belittle everything," he told her. "Is that
the way to reach to whatever value and beauty Life
holds f Always to dispraise, to make a mock — "

He went on, but her thoughts were with Alec's
stepmother. All her interest in Carlyon-Williams
was strained through Alec. She had come to see him
under the pressure of her sense of the new startling
relation sprung up between them from her love for

DISCLOSURES 268

the boy whose father's wife he had taken: she had
wanted to know if Williams had, after all, been capable
of doing this serious thing seriously, of accepting
seriously what had been done for him. She knew
well enough why he had never been able to reach to
herself : because he had never had the courage to give
himself up, because he had always remembered that
the right thing for him to do was to play the god be-
fore women, and that love was an occasion for beauti-
ful sentiments. He had been afraid of that passionate
clear forth-swept adoration by which Alec had won
her — afraid of its strength, afraid of its marring of
his role. Gillian did not then admit that Carlyon-
Williams, if different in this, could have been loved
by her ; but the 'concealed contingency affected her,
and had sharpened her curiosity about Williams's
emotion for Mrs. Glaive. She had wanted, even
jealously, a^ little, to find out if this adventure proved
him capable of love; if he had given to Alec's step-
mother what he had so utterly failed to offer to her.
But, for Alec's sake, she hoped that he had ; for Alec's
sake she wanted him to treat Mrs. Glaive well, not
simply to go on playing the god to her, for she
couldn't live on that nor stay in it. The poor woman
must have looked for romance, for some great emanci-
pation through love, some deep equalizing of all Life's
issues for her; and if she found that what she had
got was something trifling and wordy, a thing of
mock flights and mock subtleties and weak desire in
mask — What would she do then? And how would
Alec be implicated f ''What wiU she dof" Gillian

264 BRUTE GODS

now asked, for here was Hugh Carlyon-Williams
talking on in quite the old style, not altered in the
least, making great play, at that moment, with those
pompous monsters, the ''eternal verities." And he
had begun a to3dng of sentiment with her at once.

Mr. Williams continued to expound the wonder and
beauty and truth of his far voyage. "I can talk to
you/^ He was sitting by her now, leaning dose.
"You are the only woman in the world with whom I
could talk so about another woman and myself."
("But you've said absolutely nothing that I couldn't
have guessed you would say," she thought.) "You
and you alone can understand the — ^the inevitability
of this thing. It was inevitable, as great artistic
creations are. Yes, it had to be. A call that com-
pelled : we ' could no other. ' I can 't tell you how glad
I am that you came today, Gillian. You've brought
me just the expression — ^the purge of my feeling —
that I needed. And you've made me realize the beau-
tiful separateness and rarity of that strange special
relation we bear to one another. Nothing, of course,
can ever affect that. It will always stand, untouched,
unshaken, whatever happens. We poor frail accre-
tions of humanity! How our poverty and frailness
scatter from us at one single sweet breath of that
sympathy we know! Yes, some things are eternally
true."

He proceeded to caress their sympathies, while the
girl kept wondering, more baffled than before, why
he had run off with the stepmother. There couldn't
}i^ve been force enough in himself for that. Of course

DISCLOSURES 265

Gillian knew that it was out of piqne at his failure
with her that the man had beg^on to take his affair with
Mrs. Glaive seriously; but neither pique nor his love
of a theatrical coup projecting himself postured in
the high-lights could account for the Carlyon-Williams
that she knew having committed himself so far and
BO palpably — facing scandal that might hurt him,
risking a divorce suit. There must have been some
extraordinary determination, some intense driving
force from the woman, driving with fury out of sup-
pression. Or perhaps she had got him into a position
from which he couldn't draw back without looking
ridiculous. . . . Alec had never told her anything
that made his stepmother in the least definite: she
had asked him, she had found it odd that he had so
little to say.

**What is she like!'' Gillian interrupted suddenly.
"I can't see why you're not with her now."

**0h, I return — I return very soon. It would
hardly do for me to lose touch with — ^with — "

**With the literary life of the metropolis. Of
course not. Besides, you had to see how people were
taking it — ^to feel the public pulse. Naturally. But
tell me something about her."

"Surely, Gillian, from what I've said you must have
gathered—"

**I haven't gathered anything. You might have
been talking of yourself and any woman in the world.
I suppose you'd be bound to talk in exactly the same
way, whoever the woman was."

** Egoism is hardly one of my failings." Mr. Wil-

266 BRUTE GODS

liams secretly expanded under this fresh attack. He
was sare she must care. ^'But to describe Miriam — "

"Yes, in detail, quite simply."

*'0h, my dear I'* He was lightly reproachful.
*'How can It I am too— too near to her, as it were,
surely you can see — " It was clear to Mr. Williams's
delicacy that his giving Gillian a detailed and simple
description of Miriam would be unbecoming. His
impressionist picture of vague emotional complexities
had been another affair altogether. "No, don't ask
me. Really, it would mean nothing."

"Well. Tell me,"— she breathed hard— "tell me
about her family."

"Oh, the family!" Mr. Carlyon-Williams felt
positively triumphant. Gillian's insistence — ^her evi-
dent agitation — it could only mean one thing. "I
found her crushed and cramped by her family. Ah,
my dear, what hideous sacrifices family life demands !
She was in terrible spiritual suffering — terrible and
constant. At once, I knew; and she knew my sym-
pathy. Her husband — a vile little snob, nearly twice
her age, a withered mean little soul, a vampire of
egoism for her, sucking the blood of her every aspira-
tion, her every — But you must have seen him and the
others when you were — "

"Oh, hardly — in the most cursory sort of way.
I—"

She bit her lip and paled, while Mr. Williams noted
these fresh indications of his victory upon her. Of
course it was all because of his having taken Miriam.

DISCLOSURES 267

How strange women were, how erratic, how incalcula-
ble, how fascinating in their convolutions 1

**IVe never been in the house/' she added rapidly.

^' It is a prison,*' he declared. ''Nothing can go
free there, neither heart nor soul nor spirit. In that
house — ^it is really terrible, Gillian — ^you have the
sense of there not being room for an3rthing
noble or fine. And she was shut up there. I thank
heaven that I could be the instrument of her release.
The highest service that I have ever been allowed. . . .
Why, her soul was gradually wasting away I Her
heart was being drained dry I ' ' Mr. Williams 's words
reassured him.

'*How about the rest of the family t'' Gillian felt
uneasy and caught.

"Oh, there was a — ^a sort of an aunt A most
poisonous and malevolent old widow who combined
with that weasel of a husband to make Miriam's life
intolerable. — ^Why should we speak of such people t
I can only feel grateful beyond measure that Miriam
is at last clear of them all. Really it is marvellous
that she hadn't been wrecked altogether — "

''Weren't there — ^I thought there were some boys."

"Oh, the stepson. A young fellow with a lacka-
daisically insulting manner. Blue eyes, pink cheeks,
hair almost flaxen — ^you know — the complete Saxon
type. They ought never to be allowed to grow up.
'Not Angles, but angels' is all very well when they're
little boys. Later on, it's the most unsympathetic
type I faiow. She had no comfort in him, I'm sure

268 BBUTE GODS

of that. That kind of boy doesn't know what 83an-
pathy means — ^no Celtic feeling. I disliked him at
once. Lackadaisical and slangy, no brains whatever.
A mere surface. He was in the war, of course; much
good it's done him!"

* * He has a brother, hasn 't he t "

**My dear girl," — ^Williams was beginning to be
bored — "really I take no particular note of school-
boys. I always imagined that schools existed for the
purpose of keeping them out of sight. The younger
boy — I suppose he was inking his fingers in some class-
room or other; anyhow, I hardly saw him."

**Tou did. You must have, I mean."

"Oh, yes. I dimly recall a gauche youth with loi^
legs and reddish sort of hair. Very shy. He blushed
and gulped. — I'm afraid I neglected any analysis of
his personality."

Gillian turned her head and shielded her face, lean-
ing on her elbow. She was scarlet. She was furious
with Williams, he had ridiculed her. And Alec's hair
was beautiful : any one would say so. She must hurt
Carlyon- Williams somehow: not only his odiously
tolerant ridicule, but his exaggeration of Alec's youth,
enraged her; it turned all her doubts back on to her
with sharpened and agonizing edge.

"And now — " Mr. Williams, his eyes resting on
the girl's averted head — ^what delicious hair she had!
— spoke with discreet tenderness. "Now tell me
about yourself."

"Oh, come, that's good of you!" She looked up,
and catching his expression, was seized, for all her

DISCLOSURES 269

violence of trouble and suffering and rage, with a
deliberate, a wicked desire to be provocative, to move
his blood. * ' You really do want to know about meV*

**0f course." He leaned to her, responding to the
mood that her look had given him — a response of
readier verve because of her contrast with Miriam,
who never could have looked like that, so enticingly
young and flushed and tumbled. '^Tou know that
our shared hours are indestructible for me, whatever
happens. Gillian — " Her drooped hand was vivid
to his senses, and he only just saved himself from
repeating his remark about the Tanagra statuette, in
the agitation of the moment. Instead, he touched her
hand, very lightly.

"Oh, nor'

She drew away sharply. She felt ashamed of her-
self, grossly disgusted by her instant success in turn-
ing him that way. ''I'm a courtezan," she thought.
''I must have the nature of a courtezan." And,
looking at Carlyon-Williams with eyes clear of any
sex-attraction for him, she was impressed by the ab-
surdity of the spectacle presented by a desirous man:
he seemed so intent, so hot, so babyishly grave, so fret-
ted, but so comically holding himself together, even
with a sort of spurious dignity —

**Tou mistake me, Gillian." Williams broke the
pause, during which he had been thinking out the
best line to take with her. "I wish I could tell you
— a little — the thoughts I have of you. I am alto-
gether loyal to Miriam, but your sphere and hers are
far apart. There can be no conflict for me there.

270 BRUTE GODS

You mean something to me that is far beyond any
mere physical rapport. You — "

He broke off, halted by the fresh stir that the now
receding flush of her clear cheeks made in him. Those
lively fluctuations of light in her eyes disconcerted his
eloquence, so did the little quick ripples that would
keep going about her throat and breast.

' ' It 's something that goes far past the common sex-
excitement," he resumed, recovering himself. "Oh,
altogether outsoaring thai!'' He trembled : he opened
greedy arms to his exaltation that he really believed
in as pure. '^How often I have dreamed that we
might — "

''I'm afraid you flatter us both too much. You
— (A, well!" QiUian, for all her recognition of his
humbug, for all her antagonism, could not help being
gratified and pleased by the appeal, but she steadied
herself by reflecting that it was one of the most telling
that could be offered to a woman's sex-vanity.

**I really — " Williams, noting his effect, and
thinking her rejoinder extremely promising, leaned
to her. "This coarser and cruder sense-passion — ^in
my truer moments I am filled with detestation of
it! I know, and you know — how intrinsicaUy stale
and vulgar — "

'* 'Vulgar'!" The girl, remembering, turned from
him, and her eyes shone. "Oh, you know nothing
about it, then — ^nothing!"

' ' My boy ! ' ' she thought, and again, as for the first
time in the Tower moat, she felt that tremor rise and
break through her ; but now she clutched at her sense

DISCLOSURES 271

of it, in new knowledge, with a grinding tenacity to
which ahe had since grown. Mr. Carlyon-Williams
exulted. He could do anything with her now I The
signs were unmistakeable. It was not the first time
that fervent praise of chaste love had brought him
a woman's surrender. Hot and heavy with thoughts
of their next appointment, ''Oh, my darling I" he
whispered.

''Oh!" She sprang up, she shocked him by her
look of genuine anger — ^a look that held its ground
against his perplexed disappointment, while her mind
framed: "How dare yout" "What do you think
I amt" — all the conventionalities of indignant pro-
test. "You don't know," she said instead, haltingly.

"What, Gillian, whatt" He rose slowly.

"Oh, I belong to some one else, altogether!"

"What— t" He groped, he felt a fool. "What am
I to understand by thatt"

"Oh, you can understand all that there is to be
understood."

"A lover — ^you mean — ^fullyt"

"PuDy; yes."

"Oh, GfllianI Few/"

He sank heavily into the chair, and put his hand
over his face. For all the theatricality of the gesture,
he Mf^ hard hit. He had seemed so near : and even at
the times when, before, he had given up hope of her, his
consolation had been that she was invincibly cold.
He had thus spared himself the sense of personal de-
feat, and he could endure the thought of her as un-
attainable by him if she were unattainable by any

272 BRUTE GODS

one else. He could even make for himself something
fine out of this, something worthy of inclusion in his
biography as a rare spiritual relation, the relation
he had been talking of, one shining especially tor
him, in unique pale lustre ... the love of a moon-
maiden, a matter for literary pride. He had con-
vinced himself, in spite of every difBculty she had
thrust against him, that he was and must always be
the nearest to a lover that her nature could accept.
In that conviction he had rested, content with the idea
that he could always come back to her and touch her
hand and find it virgin. He had wished to come back
to heir in this way, not now, of course, but after a
decent interval. . . . Sothis was why she had* 'rather
wanted to see" him. . . . Oh, the girl had no feeling,
no sensitiveness of fibre . . . cruel. He had dreamed
of her as always untouched, with himself in this
distinguished close relation to her being so, himself
understanding it aU with such completeness. And
now — Mr. Williams, like Mr. Glaive, sided vehe-
mently with morality. He forgot all about the recent,
the earthier emotions in whi<^h Gillian had moved
him. He sat with bowed head, redeemed for the
moment from his flimsiness, overcome by the blank
finality of his loss. Alec had avenged his father.

When the smitten idealist looked up, Gillian was
sitting opposite him reading his article.

*'0f course it's nothing to you," he said, strug-
gling against the peevish tone provoked by her heart-
less composure.

"My dear Carll" She was light-hearted then be-

DISCLOSURES 278

cause of lier relief in having told him and punished
him. And she couldn't pursue revenge with Carlyon-
Williams: once having hit him, she had to treat it
as a joke. '^For a man who's been married and sep-
arated and then run off with somebody else's wife,
I must say you're rather exacting."

**Tou invoke common standards t" Carlyon-Wil-
liams looked shocked. *'You know how all that — "
— ^he waved his past from him — "how it made its way

on me."

Gillian knew how, more or less, but she was in no
mood for the emotional elaborations that would follow
any reminder. ' * Well, ' ' she said lightly, with a wil-
ful flick of the whip, ** haven't I been 'made way on'
too!"

'*Ah, but — ^but you — a girV

'* Miriam Glaive's sex is not in doubt, I suppose!"

**0h, Gillian, I won't argue with you I We're be-
yond that, we're beyond words. I had dreamed that
we might — ^but alas for dreams! — To think that you
came to see me out of simple cruelty!"

'*0h, but I didn't — ^not in the least! It was be-
cause — ^well — " She was at a loss; nothing would
have induced her to tell him that her lover was Alec
Glaive. "Oh, I couldn't have imagined that you'dl
mind my being — ^being involved, when you're so very
deep in yourself."

"Ah, well! I suppose that now we must always be
far apart, calling to one another from distant peaks.
I knew you had changed," he said sadly. "And you
are sure you have really found — the great secret!"

274 BRUTE GODS

"Tou can afford to patronize me, of coarse. "When
one has f onnd it a dozen times or so — when the dis-
covery is quite habitual — "

"Gillian, is this generous of yout" There she
was again, as in the old days, tripping up his senti-
ments and emotions, tumbling them flat over on to
their faces, "When you know what I must be feel-
ing— But be sure," he went on weightily, "that if
indeed you have — if you are — ^then there is no one
more unfeignedly glad for you than I." He looked
at her searchingly, with veiled calculation. Perhaps
some wave of reaction against surrender and passion
might bear her to him yet "Surely you know that
I can understand — '*

"Oh, but you can't, you never could — ^I'm sure!
That's what I always knew, that's why — You, with
your ideas, your ideals, your continual deferring to
them of everything you begin to feel, your continual
forcing into them of every one and everything that
comes to you I That unfortunate woman I ' '

"She does not consider herself so. She was.''

"I dare say! That's the whole pity of it." Gfl-
lian, in sudden renewal of the agitation that her dis-
closure to Williams had quelled, felt her whole body
strain and tingle. She cast about for an outlet. Wil-
liams hurried his defences against the polemic readi-
ness of her mouth, against the lighted threat of her
eyes that seemed to hold the start of the spring she
was drawn together for. "Look at the kind of people
who come here!" she burst out. '^Our kind. What

DISCLOSURES 275

do you think they can do for any society, for any in*
dividualf"

''My dear ^rl, you really cannot make me answer-
able—"

'^I hate the sight of them. They injure me — ^they
degrade me, can you understand t ever since — since
he came. Can't you see that they've got all the
hypocrisies and sentimentalisms of conventional peo-
ple, they can't have their little 'immoralities' with-
out pretence any more than a stockbroker can. I
won't tell them anything!" she added fiercely. "I
won't have them pretending about me, fingering us
over!"

"There's a good deal in what you say." Carlyon-
Williams was not ill pleased. His vanity was incom-
patible with a high opinion of his contemporaries. ''I
have certainly felt, myself — "

"Oh, youl What have you done but take ad-
vantage of it all f You make copy out of it! All
this looseness of mind, this horrible mixture of sen-
timentality and slack sensualism that has to have its
gilding. You feed on it all the time, you live on it!
With your stories of these free, modem men and
women, these pretty ones who 'out of the conscious-
ness of their new age' — "

"You are most unjust." Williams flushed angrily.
It did seem unpardonably unfair, this striking him
in the face with a quotation from that article she
had just been reading. ""Because you have a lover,
I don't see why you should turn on an old friend."

276 BRUTE GODS

'^I want to turn on everything 1" Looking hard at
the man, she longed to turn on him most of all, to
assault his plumed personality, to lay violent hands on
it But the touch of that personality numbed her
fingers, made them blunt and impotent, with the nor
warm nor cold numbness of a limb that has '^ fallen
asleep." **I can't take hold of you,'' she cried,
*'you're drugged! — ^What a mess we're all of us
inl"

'*My dear girl!" Mr. Carlyon-Williams, who had
been standing very upright before Oillian since her
offence of him, sat down again and drew his chair to
her. '*I — I think you want me to help you, to try
to help you, don't you!" He indicated to her, deli-
cately, a ministering hand. ''You have been thrown,
I can see, into a ferment — "

''Not your kind of ferment, though. I don't deal
in your emotional specialities, as I've told you before.
It's simply that I've never been so unbearably sick-
ened by this perpetual fake that you and aU the rest
of them keep up, of doing eversrthing from the highest
motives! You yourself — ^I suppose you've been in
love with a dozen women at least, but then of course
you've had the highest ideals of all of them ! — ^Whether
it's taking some one else's wife or husband, or keeping
a mistress or leaving one, there has to be this per-
petual attempt at sublimation, and it rots you all!"
She clenched her fist, and her voice rose so sharply
that Williams gave a glance round the room. ^'Any-
thing would be better. Why can't you any of you
simply do what you want to do and keep quiet f But

DISCLOSURES 277

it has to be in the name of some new revelation,
some higher law ! It's better to be afraid of scandal
than to have to lean on that kind of humbug!"

''I don't understand you, Qillian. Sincerity is my
whole aim — "

"We must have some tightening of the strings."
She threw back her head, she looked on past Williams,
seeming to leave him out of count, annoying him so
much that he resolved not to listen to what she said.
**We must get it somehow — or it'll mean that the
huge effort of the war will simply have done for us
altogether. We people — After all, what do we do,
for all our talk t We 've lost the courage even to be
wicked. We creep into all our passions by the back
doors, we've lost the power of defying or accepting,
we're not safe without our texts on the wall to re-
mind us and keep us in countenance. ' '

"Good heavens! If you include me — ^as if I ever
aimed at safety!'^ Mr. Williams felt it very nec-
essary to impress himself at that moment. Again
she provoked his senses, and now he knew it was no
use being provoked. That intransigeant look of hers
had always whipped him amorously, and in her
present vivid excitement of hostility she breathed her-
self too fully out for his peace of mind, she came too
physically against him through the mobilities of her
mouth, the shining and moistening of her eyes, all the
pressures of her unruliness. His susceptibility to
beauty sometimes made uncalled for demonstrations.
"I defy and I accept with absolute freedom and
courage."

278 BRUTE GODS

"Ah, but you haven't the courage to stand on
your own feelings and face them as yours. You
never had, that was always the trouble. If only
your idealisms hadn't sophisticated you in that way."

She stopped, struck by her having taken from the
boy that direct strong passion which this man, with
his thwarting mania for Platonic heights and am-
biguous fine involutions had had to withhold from her;
struck by the cruel irony of her not being able to
keep the boy's gift, not being able to sustain in Alec
all that she could so well have held fast by in an older
lover. Alec soon would know the inequality that she
knew now, the edges of that inequality would show —
ah, they were showing I — with the lifting of the mists
of his first fervours. Young love — she couldn't give
him young love that he needed : she had hoodwinked
him with a counterfeit, and he'd find her out Gil-
lian's state was indeed, as Williams had said, one of
"ferment"; but aU the suffering of the ferment came,
not from her passion, but from her terrible and haunt-
ing insecurity. She had begun to feel appallingly
caught. More and more cruelly she was rent by the
conviction that real completion of love was impossible
here, for all her surrender and his. Her experience,
her brain, had spoiled her for taking immediate joy as
itself, spoiled her for living in the simple beauty of
the moment. She could wish, now, that this had
never happened to them. She could even reproach
Williams for not having been strong and clear enough
to give her what might have saved her from this.
She was in suffering of a stroke dear from Nature,

1

DISCLOSURES 279

a stroke that could have fallen upon her in what con-
dition soever of society or morals. This she knew,
and knowing^ she struck out in a harried abjuring of
what was to her now the poor littleness of moral re-
form, moral revolution. She was constrained to an
attack upon efforts the success or failure of which
could mean nothing to her — ^nothing really deeply to
any one, so her thoughts cried out.

Garlyon-Williams, meanwhile, had been protesting
to inattentive ears his uinocence of sophistication and
his profound conviction of the value of true courage.

"All the same/' she interrupted him, "there's no
real courage left. It's the most ridiculous of all
periods!"

"Oh, come!" Mr. Williams remembered his
written word. "It's the greatest period of recon-
struction ever seen — so much that's in formation,
so much that's being tested. An age of new insight,
new demands. And everywhere minorities are wrest-
ling for the control of the future. You can't be-
lieve that we strive vainly, you used not to think so."

^ ' Oh, I used to think that marriage reform and the
motto of 'Every woman her own breadwinner' would
save us all. But we are ridiculous. We just twitter,
and play with our brains, we're as useless for our-
selves as we are for what we call 'society.' We go
perching on one and another of our little branches
while the working-people and the clever politicians
are fighting it out between them." It relieved her
greatly, this forcing of herself from personal tur-
moil to general vistas. "And all the working-people

280 BRUTE GODS

have got are the better wage and the higher standard
of comfort ideals, all the politicians have got is
adaptability and shrewdness and their drab doctrine
of * Keep as much of your skin as you can. * We want
some aristocrats to save us, and there aren't any left.
Can't people see that all the finer brain-stuff is going
under, and that we shall soon get either a rule of
lobby and money and journalists or a rule of pro-
letarians turned middleclassY — ^And it's our own
fault!"

'^Well. In a sense. There is a danger of material-
ism. I've never denied that some of the signs of our
times are disquieting. Indeed, I've pointed it out."

"Oh, so does every one!" She was suddenly on
her feet. ''It's late."

' ' Oh, hardly. Why should you t " He remembered
the letter to Miriam that he would have to write when
she had left. She had made that letter all the more
difficult. He shrank from the violent readjustment
that would be necessary. "Well — ^if you must — "
Garlyon-Williams took her hand. She would come
back to him; it was clear that she was not contented,
she was restless, on edge, not happy. "I may at least
wish you wellt"

"Oh, yes!" She disappointed him, for she could
not help laughing. His wishes seemed to touch her
situation with such bizarre futility. "I'm sorry: but
in a way, you see, you can't wish. Tou don't know.
I'm in it — in it — that's all, and I don't want to give
him wings or set him free or put a polish on his soul,
I won't say I do, I couldn't be so impertinent, I

DISCLOSURES 281

only want to — ^why should I tell you, thought I
won't!"

She turned, trembling, she went quickly for vexed
fear of his seeing that she was nearly hysterical.
Carlyon-Williams stared after her, not quite sure
whether she might not be in love with him, after all.

CHAPTER XXm

WHY was ity Alec asked himself in much per-
plexity and some indignation, why was it
that she had talked, that last time, about
his leaving hert Why had she insisted, that day at
Richmond, that he had not really burned his boats,
when he knew he hadt She was his: how could
anything alter thatt They could have been married
by now ; really and truly, they were married already.
Then, why — t How could she want him to go, to go
back to that house where everything would be as it
was before, but blank and horrible as it never had
beent If they were married, it would be a great
thing done, a great confirmation. It would make
everything safe; now they weren't safe. OiUian,
during those last two days, had communicated her
sense of insecurity to him, but, fearing, he tried to
feel it as something entirely needless, something that
marriage would instantly disperse. He saw marriage
as a fine stroke, a grand gesture. Married, he could
return home ; married, he could do anything. Above
all, he would be sure.

His was the ever-touching, the impossible and re-
ligious resolve to hold fast by what Nature, with her
regardless material economy, thrusts from Man's
grasp so soon. He moved in that blind drawing on
to get the better of Nature by declaring a solemn

DISCLOSURES 288

perpetuity of the most instable and fleeting, the most
casual and undurable of all human relations.
Bravely, viciously, pathetically, he would have forced
Nature, that immemorial violator of love's faith;
would have forced her to his strong will of the
moment by a binding tremendous confession of it as
a will for all his years, a will that had Ood for
sponsor, Ood, Nature's Overruler. Held in the pas-
sionate impulse to cry '^ Deathless I" at the first sly
stench of corruption, hoping thus to outdo death,
he would win surer hope with witnesses, divine and
mortal, to his cry.

They loved each other. Why, then ! And at first
she had not rejected the idea of their marriage, she
had only pnt oflf. **0h, don't let's spoil it by think-
ing about banns or Registrars!" . . . Incidents of
their week's intimacy passed fluttering and lively be-
fore him. His first sight of her hair fallen to her
waist — so fully a woman, that had made her, so fully
his own. It had revealed her as woman in a way
so utterly strange and wonderful; it had made her
immemorial . . . her warmth that hastened out to
him . . . those silences along which they lay, far off,
and together.

Why should there have been anything else to re-
member t Why had there been that bad day at
Bichmond, the Sunday t This was the day after he
had first feared, and he had to keep on, with his in-
experienced tenacity, arguing for marriage, pleading
for it, insisting. He spoilt the occasion wholly.
Gillian, with nerves sharply strung and fit for touches

284 BRUTE GODS

of discord, could not cope with him ; her normal self
failed her. She was out of poise, and that startled
and fretted him. She grew as insistent as he; they
almost wrangled. She spoke against marriage, say-
ing the kind of things she had thought of that day
in the moat, and not said, every word seeming, to him,
exasperatingly remote and irrelevant, and, to her,
bookish. Her words angered her with herself, and
out of that very vexation and annoyance, she, in like
case with him, had to go on. She could not come
too closely to their own matter, to touch what was the
real argument, their separating years. She feared
thus to bring the whole near weight of that cleaving
stroke crashing upon them, and cutting her away.
Meanwhile he strove, perplexed, not knowing that he
was also striving with himself. Both of them were
restless, anxious, fatigued. It was the only com-
plete day that they had spent together. On the week-
days Gillian went to her Office as usual, so Alec never
saw her before about five o'clock. ... He wouldn't
think of that day, it shouldn't count. His thoughts
hastened back, intercepted on their way, baulked for
awhile, by the consideration that she had told him
to come to her later than usual that evening, and
had not said why.

Now under the yoke, now under the spell of his
reflections, Alec sat in the little bedroom- of the shabby
house in Shepherd's Bush where he had found lodg-
ing. It was not only a shabby house, it was an
extremely shady one; as might have been guessed
from the disarmingly respectable and discreet ap-

DISCLOSURES 286

pearance, the suspiciously reassuring and benevolent
demeanour of Mrs. Hannah Bamfield, its tenant.
Practically her entire income was, in fact, derived
from renting her rooms for purposes of assignation,
at five shillings and sixpence a visit. These five and
sixpences came in a continuous stream, both from
regular and casual customers, and they enabled Mrs.
Bamfield to indulge liberally in her passion for the
collection of little figures and little animals, mainly of
Oriental fabrication, in porcelain and ivory and silver.
'*So dainty," she said of them, and they were. Her
fourteen-year-old son, Alfred, a sickly spectacled boy,
helped in a bookseller's shop in the Charing Cross
Road, and her daughter Betty, a year or so older
than Alfred, in no way resembling him, danced at
the Palace Theatre in Tumham Green. But neither
of the children brought much of their small earnings
to the house. Their mother was generous to them,
well satisfied for them to pay for their own clothes
and amusements, and for herself to provide their
keep out of the wages of sin.

Alec knew very little of London. On his arrival
at Liverpool Street he had taken the Tube Railway,
invited by its Entrance which was near the platform
at which his train drew up. He asked for a ticket
to Notting Hill Gate — Gillian's address — ^but, in the
train, he decided to go on past that station a little:
the neighbourhood would be more or less suburban,
and lodgings would therefore be cheaper. He was
resolved to make Wilfred's twenty pounds last as long
as possible : he thought he could make it last for five

286 BRUTE GODS

or six weeks. The money had become very real to
him after the Station-master at Malstowe had cashed
the cheque. Arrived at Shepherd's Bush he remem-
bered having heard of that locality as highly un-
fashionable. His father had once contemptuously
pronounced its name. So he got off, and, carrying his
valise, walked at haphazard. Mrs. Bamfield's house
was the first one he saw with the placard ' ' Furnished
Booms" in the window.

The purpose of this placard was to keep up ap-
pearances that were at variance with the reality of
Mrs. Bamfield's accommodations: she had no inten-
tion of losing money by taking in respectable lodgers
for a guinea or so a week. Seeing a youth alone,
a youth with hand-luggage, which to her mind
guaranteed the propriety of his requirements, she told
him at once^ from force of habit^ that all her rooms
were let. She had even begun to shut her door against
the boy, when his look of intense and even suffering
disappointment arrested her. To Alec this rebuff
seemed to doom his whole enterprise to failure.

**Well," she said. ''There's lots o' nice plices a
little wye further up the street Stryenger in London,
ain't yert"

**0h, no, not really a stranger. — You've got
'Furnished Booms' put up I"

"Lodgin's is very dear, young man, after the war."
Mrs. Bamfield eyed him, and liked him.

"How mucht What ought I to payt"

"Well. 'Ow longH you want to styet"

"Oh, a few weeks, perhaps. I don't quite know."

DISCLOSURES 28T

Mrs. Bamfield tickled her chin, and blinked. She
was taken by Alec's difference from the usual run of
her customers. '*If yer satisfied with a little room at
the back—"

''Oh, yes, I don't mind at all."

* * I might let yer 'ave it for a week. After which,
I couldn't leye."

**Thank you very much."

He stepped eagerly forward. Mrs. Bamfield, fat,
neatly dressed and demure, continued to examine him,
and continued to find tiie examination satisfactory.
She would give him the smallest room, with the
smallest bed. After all, it was a slack time just
then.

''And how much will it bet" asked Alec. The
question of price loomed before him with remarkable
importance.

"Oh, I won't be 'ard on yer. Don't you worry.
You come with me, an' I'll show yer."

She led the way, very slowly, upstairs. Outside
the door of the room, she told him to "jus' wyte 'arf
a minute," and went in by herself, leaving him on the
landing. When she came out she had in her hands a
comb, a screwed-up bit of newspaper, a hair-net, a
half -consumed cigarette, an empty medicine-bottle,
five or six hairpins, and a piece of broken looking-
glass. " 'Bin tidyin' up for you," she said affably.

Alec walked into the room, not noticing anything
about it except that it was very small, and smelt
close. ' ' All right, ' ' he said. ' ' And how much do you
want a weekt"

288 BRUTE GODS

*'Five and sixpence/' she replied, from force of
habit.

''All right," he said again, in pleased surprise.
Five and sixpence seemed so very little out of twenty
pounds.

''Y'see— " Mrs. Bamfield hesitated. She had
realized her slip at once, but now that he looked so
pleased she hadn't the heart to correct it. **Well,
I wouldn't do it for every one, but bein' as you're
a gentleman an' it's a small room an' I'm sure you're
nice an' quiet — " ** Quietness," in Mrs. Bamfield's
eyes, was the most commendable of human virtues.

"Oh, but of course I'd like to give you your
regular price," said Alec reluctantly, little suspect-
ing how *' regular" the price was.

''Ho, no. I said five and six, and I keep to what
I said. That's 'ow I am." She expanded with her
generosity. **I'll interdooce yer to me son Alfred,
'case yer lonely, see what I meant 'E's at the
Pictures now, 'e goes most every evenin'. Me
daughter, she's up at the Palace, she's in the Profes-
sion. Smart kids, they are, my Alfred, now, why
'e — " A ring at the front door interrupted her,
much to the relief of Alec's growing impatience.
*'Well, I 'ope yezll be comferble." Excusing herself
with an air of marked dignity, even of hauteur, she
left him.

Some five minutes later he had telephoned to
Qillian.

The last frailly in passion is, for a woman, excus-
able in tolerant eyes by the oblivious sweep upon her

DISCLOSURES 289

of an oyerwheliuing imprompta of romantic loye.
Before that sudden onslaught her defences may drop
and she come under pity for misfortune rather than
censure for depravity; the charge being laid, with a
sigh and a quotation from Thomas Hood or Bobert
Bums, to Nature's imperious urge, too strong for
human weakness. That familiar extenuation cannot
be fully pleaded for Qillian. She was, indeed, drawn
with power to her young lover, and drawn far more
romantically than sensually : her passion sent spread-
ing circles far out from the fleshly desire which it
compassed. The desire and its expression were in-
cidents in the larger emotional outflow, incidents that
played their due part, their inevitable part, in rela-
tion, for release and change; but, as things in them-
selves, they were reduced to an unimi>ortance that
can never be understood by sensualists or Puritans.
Men and women of these two kindred classes heighten
the import of mere sex-action because it is the only
expression of passion that they can understand or
admit. Indulgence and suppression, the one constant
and undiscriminating as the other, involve the same
curtailments, the same impoverishments of view.
They involve the same obscene decencies and disgusts :
Mr. Carlyon-Williams and Mr. McGiU, the lay-reader,
the ''Purity Ghoul," knew these alike.

If Gillian had loved Alec more sensually, she would
have drawn back: that lesser gain would not have
been worth her surrender. Out of sensualism she will
be condemned. If her nature had been more grossly
amorous, and therein colder and narrower; if sex-

290 BRUTE GODS

consciousness had played as much a part in her life
as in the life of the average girl ; even, it may be said,
if she had not been, as she was, virgin — she would
not have given so unreservingly, she would not have
rejected the interval, the gradual approach.

But she knew what she was doing. Her brain held
clear. She provoked the event, not he. To her deeper
impulses there was added a fevered determination to
snatch at the joy and delight that were there now for
her as never, not even in blurred likeness, they had
been ; and as they never would be again, she was sure
of that. She remembered how Garlyon-WilUams had
failed her ; she saw herself in a destined succession of
such failures, unshriven by the one full confession
of herself offered by that hour. She knew, even from
the beginning, how short that hour must be. If she
refused it, the loss would stand firm, and all her
theories, her professions of free faith, how bitterly
they would mock her! — ^Now, when he had come to
her — ^Alec— eome driving his way, inevitably and at
once, breaking down his father's will, finding
money ... He had come before she had said he
might. She was touched and moved by that strongly :
and while it might have delayed another woman, it
hastened her.

Yet for all this she might not have so consciously
formed her decision and struck so directly with it —
so shamelessly soon, even by the standards of Mrs.
Bamfield's amorists — ^had it not been for that in-
tellectual sophistication which often does so much
worse or so much better than blind feeling. She did,

DISCLOSURES 291

at one determining moment, allow reason to challenge
and to worst sex-instinct for the later as against the
present time. Instinct was for hope of the impos-
sible, for the trying of all ways to hold him for a
longer hour: reason fronted the facts.

Alec had no sense of sin. His recent reaction
against conventional moral values had little to do
with this. He felt, very simply, that now he could
look the whole world in the face, that the world must
open its arms to him. He felt that he could never
be ashamed of anything any more. This exultation
held for five days: for five days he was as a god,
knowing good and not evil. Then suddenly in one
of their embraces, the thought came: It had never
been quite the same as it was in the Tower moat.
From then on, being no longer sure and satisfied, he
talked of marriage, and their wills began to pull,
straining. He was reaching, as best he could, for re-
capture of what she knew he could not have again,
from her.

CHAPTER XXIV

AS Oillian went from Williams back to her flat
a harsh intolerable hatred of herself drove
over her, followed by a racking fear of what
that self -hatred might do to Alec. It would turn him
terribly against her, it must. . . . Her nerves
wavered cruelly, they would break, she couldn't see
him. She could not go to Alec from Carlyon-Wil-
liams. Some hotel, the nearest hotel. ... If she
could get a room, if she could be there alone, safe,
in five minutes. . . .

As soon as she was in the cab, she was attacked
by a bitter indignation against Williams. Why, when
she didn't love that man, when she never had loved
him, never could have loved him — Was that true,
was that honestly true, that she never could have
cared t Of course it was 1 Why, then, had this meet-
ing with him now been so important! Why had
he this power, to make it impossible for her to see
Alect He shouldn't have, she wouldn't allow it!
She wouldn't run away, she wouldn't go to any hotel,
it was ridiculous. She resolved to intercept her own
flight at once, she told the driver to go to Notting
Hill Gate Station. She was in panic as her sudden
forced courage, her defiance of her instinct for safety,
came up, battling against the leap of her apprehension.
She wouldn't, at least, give any other order to the

292

DISCLOSURES 208

driver, she cotQdn't have stood doing that. Why not
tell Alec she was ill, when he eamet She need only
see him for a moment. She would do that: that
wouldn't be running away, would itt She wouldn't
let him see her strained face, he wouldn't know that
she was harsh and nervous and frightened. It
wouldn't be fair, seeing him, not when she was like
this. She must walk quickly from the Station or he
might be there first, waiting . . . walking up and
down the street, as he had had to once before. He
had no key, he hadn't asked; of course, he wouldn't
have thought. He hadn't thought of anything like
that, hadn't thought of passing as her brother ... no
intrigue. How untouched he was. . . .

She was breathless from her haste as she stooped
to open the door: at once she went to her bedroom,
to the mirror. ' ' How dreadful I look ! I look dread-
ful, he mustn't see me." Damp ends of hair dung to
her cheeks and to her forehead, her face was pallid
and moist, lines showed in it. How could she have
failed so in control? It was shameful of her. She
tugged at her hair, loosened it out through her fingers,
let it fall, hid her face in it. She flung her hair back,
drew it tightly back from ears and forehead, laid
her face bare, scrutinized herself. ... It was a di-
rect stroke, a dear disclosure, that she needed with
Alec. But she couldn't look like that. He might
he there at once. She went to the bathroom, sponged
her face in cold water, rubbed it with a rough towel
If she could somehow disguise herself! The bdl
rang. Her hair down . . . she would leave it, he

294 BRUTE GODS

liked it. . . . She remembered what he had said that
first day they met : ' ' I shotddn 't mind if it did oome
down." She went to the door, called his name, and
he answered. ''Wait a minate!" she said sharply.
She went back to her bedroom, drew her hair tightly
back from her ears and forehead, fastened it, fastened
it close with hairpins, rolled it behind high on her
neck, and so went out to meet him.

''Why did you make me come so latet Why,
Qillian, Qillian dear, what's the matter f

" Oh, I just came back. I've been — '* She turned
on the light.

"What's happenedt"

"Look at me, you're not looking."

"Why have you — t What have you been doing to
your hair t Do let me — ' '

"Don't touch it! I don't want you to touch it I
Sit there, Alec."

' ' Something 's happened, what is it T Do tell me — ' '

"You must go back, you must go home. I want you
to."

"Oh, Qillian, again! You promised you wouldn't.
You don't want me any moret"

"I dot I want you to go away before you've
stopped wanting me."

' * Do put your hair right, please do. ' '

"No. I want you to see, I want you to know — "

"But I know I love you. Just because you put
your hair like that, do you think that — t But you
must change it, you must, and be like you were be-
fore."

DISCLOSURES 295

''Tou don't know what I was before, 70a don't
know what I am. Alec."

'^Tes, I do, you're Qillian. I don't care about any-
thing else."

*' You do really. You must, even if you don't think
so. Oh, I can't give you what you really want, what
you ought to havel"

''But why — t" He sat looking at her face that
was drawn and driven with its pain, exposed, solitary,
braving him. He felt again that it had never been
quite as it was in the Tower moat, refusing now, in
sharpened loyalty, that feeling. ''I couldn't want
anything more 1 ' '

''I don't mean for now, I mean later. No, Alec,
you must go. I want to make it easier for you, I've
tried to. So long as you do mind going, a little,
still. I'd like you to mind a little."

' ' I do, most awfully ! Do change your hair back,
do let me — ^just — "

**No, I can't. We must leave off, don't you see
we mustt"

''We can marry. Do let us marry. Let's make it
certain. You know what I said before, I feel just
the same."

"Ah, that's itl" She looked up. He was beauti-
ful to her, his eagerness was very beautiful. She
turned from him. "You're so awfully young!"

"You mean you're tired of met"

"Oh!" She was seized terribly by a longing for
him to come clinging to her, she was in misery and
fear for her want of him. He mustn't know . . . but

296 BRUTE GODS

why not, why shouldn't het *'If we keep on any
longer, ' ' she said, * ^ I shall have to marry you, I can 't
hold out, and that's why it must stop. Haven't I
done everything! I've spoilt it for you already, I
know I have, I couldn't help — " She still looked
down, away from him. ''Alec, I know that man
very well, did they tell yout Carlyon-Williams."

''Oh, they said something about your being
friends/'

"I've seen him today, been with him. He used
to be fond of me in a way, I ought to have told you. ' '

"What, thai chapl" Alec was shocked. "You
don't mean to say — But you didn't like him, you
couldn't have, did yout"

"Oh, Idon'tftnw/"

"But he didn't — ^he didn't ever kiss yout"

"Once he did. Oh, it may have been two or three
times. ' '

"They said you were friends. I didn't think — "
Alec frowned. "But you didn't like him!"

"Alec. You'll find some girl who 11 come to you
utterly fresh — ^utterly clear — ^you deserve it. I've
robbed her, I know I have, but I've left her a great
deal. I won't leave any less." She wanted to add
"I love you too much," but she was strong enough
not to say that. ' ' Oh, Alec, you don 't know now, but
it makes all the difference — all the difference. The
kind of love I want for you is the only kind that
any mother ever wants her boy to have, it's the love
you've a right to, and I can't give it you. First love,
young love. I know what it ought to be, because

DISCLOSURES 2»7

I've been really young too. But I never found any
one, not then. It was rather a pity, I suppose — "

'*But you've found me." Alec tried to under-
stand, he couldn't, his head was throbbing. ''And I
am your first, you told me I was." He thought of
Williams.

* * Oh, in that way, yes 1 But I Ve thought too much,
I Ve known too much. It's not the same. Tou'd find
out later on. Nothing is surer than that ; if it weren't
so sure, I 'd stay with you, I 'd risk a ekcmce, of course
I would! But you'd find out, and it would be ter-
rible. I can feel it, and I can't face it. I'd no right
to be your first!"

''What! You don't think it was wicked, you
couldn't. . . ."

'*If it had been only what people call wicked —
only sensual — It's just because it was more, it's be-
cause it was too much and too little!"

''Gillian, dear. I don't. . . . Oh, do please put
your hair down, don't — don't cheat me like that, be
like you were, do ! "

"I couldn't, not now. It would make it harder,
saying good-bye."

"I won't say good-bye!" Alec got up and took
her hands. "This isn't the last time," he cried in
acute alarm, "it can't be!"

"It won't be any use, what use could it be after
what I've saidt You know now — "

"Oh, I don't care about what you said! I didn't
even understand it. "

''But you will. Alec, I'm horribly tired." She

298 BRUTE GODS

put his hands from her. ''You will go, won't yout
You wouldn't stay if you knew, you couldn't — "

''But I can come again tomorrowt"

"No, no, don't, please don't. Not tomorrow or the
next day, at least"

"The day aftert But it's awfully long."

"I'll write. 111 tell you. I must be alone, I must
think, I must get free."

' ' You could write and make it sooner. ' ' He leaned
to kiss her; she put up her hand against him.
"Gillian! You're tired of me, that's what it is, I
knew it must be you didn't care any more, not so
much — "

"Do yauf Really, do yout Is it just the same
for yout You know it isn't. Alec, not even after a
week. ' '

"You shoiddn^t say that!" he declared violently.
"It 19 the same. Why do you talk like this, why do
you keep onf We could have been so happy all this
time! And now I'm not to see you for three days!"
He spoke fretfully.

"Perhaps in three days. I'm not sure. I oughtn't
to see you again, I don't know if I'll let myself be
weak."
"Oh, GiUian, you must!"

"I won't say now. It's not fair. Don't say any-
thing more, Alec, just go, I do beg you."

"All right, then."

He turned to go, in pique and disappointment and
perplexity. His head ached: she had given him a

DISCLOSURES 299

headache with the words that came from her aching
heart. As he left her, he heard her sob, and he tamed
back for a moment. ''But I want to marry you," he
said, ''I do want to, I want it so much I"

CHAPTER XXV

THE mornings and afternoons of that past
week had exposed Alec to the friendliness
of Mrs. Bamfield. Also to her curiosi-
ties, for she very soon began to wonder, agreeably,
what he did with his evenings, for which he always
declined her Alfred's invitations on the ground that
he had to **see friends." Betty, the dancer, never
got up till nearly noon. Two or three mornings after
his arrival, she had run into him on the landing round
a comer; she was in her dressing-gown. ''Oh, Billiel
and who'd have thought it was youf" She darted
away, laughing, turning flying curls to him. Before
that he had hardly noticed her. A few minutes later,
going out^ he heard Mrs. Bamfield reproving her
daughter for being ''free" — "runnin' round the
'ouse not properly dressed at this time of dye, I'm
ashimed of yer!"

On his condemnation to the three days' absence
from Gillian, Alec realized the need of defence against
his landlady. She had opened the door for him, had
commented on his being back so early, and held him
with her talk till his head ached worse than ever.
When he told her that his head ached and that he
must go to bed, she made protracted suggestions of
remedies. At last he escaped. He slept heavily and
dreamlessly.

800

DISCLOSURES 801

When he woke, it was late. His headache was
gone. He dressed quickly, slipped out of the house,
walked at a great pace to the little tea-shop where
he had his breakfasts. Breakfasting was at any rate
something to do, something to think of. What he
would like would be to move about very rapidly.
He wanted a fast motor, an open motor. Well, riding
on the top of a motorbus, that would do. After break-
fast he took the first 'bus that passed, a 'bus that went
westward along streets and roads where traffic was
light. Alec let himself swing in the mere motion,
absorbed in the motion, thinking of nothing else. He
went to the end of the journey, then he stayed on for
the return.

When the 'bus had almost got back to Shepherd's
Bush, it began to rain. The woman sitting next to
Alec put up her umbrella. He noticed that she
seemed conscious of protecting him with it. He didn 't
like that, it embarrassed him and made him nervous ;
he edged away. "You'll get wet, won't yout" she
said. — ^**0h, I get out here, I live here!" — ^He
clambered down hastily and went to his tea-shop.
It was time for lunch now. The time had gone, after
aU.

He ate lunch as slowly as he could. The rain went
on. Perhaps he had better go back to the house for
his coat. He might be able to avoid Mrs. Bamfield.
He could say he was in a hurry.

But Mrs. Bamfield was not avoidable. She ap-
peared at once, impressively solicitous about his being
wet. Yesterday, she told him, he'd had a headache;

802 BRUTE GODS

now, he'd have a cold. She'd make him some good
strong tea, hot. He thanked her, he agreed : it would
pass the time. ^'You ain't doin' anything par-
tic 'ler t ' ' she queried curiously. — ^ * Oh, not now. But
I must go out soon agaiu, you know." — He wouldn't
for anything have admitted that those two evenings
were empty.

When he had drunk his tea^ Mrs. Bamfield invited
Alec 'to view her collection of little figures — ^"my
ornaments," she called them. She opened the glass
front of the bookshelf in which they were locked.
Alec examined and admired, Mrs. Bamfield lengthen-
ing the period of his admiration by informing him
in careful detail about the places and the dates of
her purchases. She fingered the tiny objects, one by
one, her eyes glazed and excited. Transported by the
delicacies of an ivory elephant, she once called Alec
''dearie" — ^a term which, from her to him, struck the
boy as unprecedentedly odd. Suddenly Betty ap-
peared — an appearance flung at full pitch ; completely
caught by him for its unexpectedness, firmly held.
He was startled by her noticeableness, he found he
could not keep his eyes ofl? her long black curls, those
dead-black, so separate curls. The reflection that she
was ''an actress" gratified him: he had never seen an
actress in private life before. "But then," he
thought, "she's only a kid, she'd hardly count."

"Hello, Billie!" she said. "Having a squint
round the Zoof" She had none of her mother's
Cockney accent ; her pronunciation was sometimes too
careful.

DISCLOSURES 808

'''BiUieM'' Mrs. Bamfield pouted. "The idea!"

"How should I know what his old name ist"
The girl started whistling a tune, and went over to the
window. ' ' Raining, ' ' she observed, with complete in-
difference.

"Well, what of itt" The mother was watching
Alec. "Just you tike a taxi up, dearie, I won't
grudge the 'arf-a-crown. Penny wise an' poun'
foolish never done no good, I say." She invited
Alec's wandering attention to a porcelain alligator.

"Don't you go showing those books round, now!"
Betl7 turned sharply. Alec had stopped thinking
what time it was. He took in the unusualness of the
colour of her cheeks and her wide mouth. He did not
know that she used rouge: she used it skilfully, and
mi^t have deceived an observer more expert than he.
"Sect" she went on, as her mother did not answer.
"Because I don't want."

Mrs. Bamfield gave her a look in which maternal
suspicion and maternal understanding were blended.
"That'll be aU right," she said.

' ' Because they 're mine. They 're private. See t ' '

In a few minutes the three of them were looking
through the books together. One contained photo-
graphs of Betty at various ages and in various ood-
tumes, the other was a scrap-book full of press-notices,
provincial and suburban, of the various shows in which
she had played. She had been on the stage since she
was twelve.

"Oh!" she cried out. "You mustn't see that one.
— Oh, it doesn't matter, I was only a kid then!"

804 BRUTE GODS

' ' She always did have beautiful limbs, from a baby, ' '
Mnu Bamfield observed witb decorous satisfaction.

Alec bent his head over the photograph. It was of
Betty at thirteen, plump and lithe, a too female Cupid.
The boy's face was serious, he looked as though he
were learning a lesson. "That's a silly one!"
Betty gave him an inquisitive glance, and turned the
pages.

There was coquetry in everything she did: in the
way she turned those pages, the way she shook back
those dead-black curls, the way she drummed on the
table with her broad little fingers. In every possible
way she threw out her propinquity as a challenge to
the boy.

Mrs. Bamfield was talking feelingly of the tempta-
tions of a young girl in London. "Specially when
she's in the Profession. They're something terrible,
the men are. If you knew, just. ' '

"Oh, shut it, Mother!"

"You may laugh, dearie, but once you give 'em
'arf a chanct or nod yer 'ead for 'arf a minute — It's
watchful as a cat as does it"

Betty did not answer. She was looking at Alec,
and looking at him freely, because his eyes remained
fixed on the book of photographs. She liked him, be-
cause he had taken no notice of her at any time, be-
cause he had been so preoccupied. From the first
she had suspected him of being "in love," and she
knew, not consciously, that he was loved. Her un-
read conviction of this infiuenced her enormously, the
conviction was as profound as it was remote. It was

DISCLOSURES 805

the imdeciphered signs in him of Gillian's love that
drew this girl, and challenged her in her turn. Alec
kept thinking that she was not so pretty as her photo-
graphs, and he wondered why the photographs would
be dull if she were not there.

^'My little girl will wait till the right one comes
along, I know my Betty! One feller's enough for
aiiy girl, and one girl 's enough for a feller. " {** More
than enough," Alec thought, in trouble.) ''An'
that's what I've always said! A nice girl knows a
reel man, one what 11 love an pertect her." Mrs.
Bamfield brightened under the propriety of her
sentiments. ''Why are you so mum, Bettst It ain't
like yer — " She wanted her child to show off.

"Oh, tired, that's it. Here, do you want to see this
onet Don't go on looking at those stupid old photo-
graphs, I'm sick of them!" She pushed the book
away, brushing his hand with her hair.

Alec glanced hurriedly up. "She is pretty," he
thought, "at least she's — " He looked down, still
grave.

Betty Bamfield did give a first impression of pretti-
ness, but that came entirely from her eyes and hair
and manner, her gaiety and youth. Certainly she
had no beauty. Her nose was blunt, her large mouth
lacked grace of curve, there was a certain shapeless-
ness about the whole face. And even though she was
so young, she had to take warning from her mother's
figure and tiiought for her own. She was already
anxiously afraid of growing up to be "one of those
awful great big fat girls." But her child's slender-

806 BRUTE GODS

ness was enticingly tempered, now, by the hints of her
physical future, the beginnings that tinged her child's
looks with sex. She violently attracted middle-aged
men, for whom, unlike many girls of her age, she had
a great distaste. She could afford to repulse them
unequivocally, thanks to her mother's equivocal gains.
Boys took little heed of her, and, absorbed in her pro-
fession, she had been much less occupied with
amorous thoughts than are most well brought up
young boarding-school girls,« nourishing their curiosi-
ties and ignorances and dreams that spring in such
sensuous plenty from the soil of their guardians' care.
Lovemaking, to Betty, was a humorous matter, as-
sociated with the repartee of stage-comedians.

^'Who wrote thist" Alec asked. ''It's a sonnet^
isn't itt"

''What's that meant" The child leaned, and tak-
ing the book, sharing it with him, she stayed dose.
"Oh, good-night! The chap that wrote that was
dotty!"

"I like it. I think it's very good."

"That pome what that Mr. Merridew wrote about
you, dearie t"

"The first letters of the lines make my name, do
you sect"

"You read 'em down. Clever, ain't itt *B was
an artist, so 'e said, useter sketch. Betty wouldn'
take no notice of 'im, an' serve 'im right. 'B wasn'
up to no good, a man don't go writin' i>omes an'
spendin' 'is money on bouquets an' big boxes of
chocerlits fer nothin'. Says 'e met 'er by chanct, we

DISCLOSURES 807

know all about thatl ^Ad 'is wicked old eye on 'er
fer a week an' morel"

By ohtmoe we met, to chance indeed
Aa kind and bright as houre of May,
Releasing aong and hoUdi^ —

Alec read. ''Can I copy this t" he asked. "I'd like
to."

"Can if you like. It won't hurt met^* Betty
blushed, and her mother sat looking at them, absorb-
ing the intimations of the boy's request and her "little
girl's" mounting colour.

"A tall feller, 'e was, Mr. Merridew was, with
lightish 'air an' wore it long — "

"Oh, he was soft!"

"O' course I know you never give 'im a moment's
thought, 'course not." Mrs. Bamfield spoke with
quaint dignity. She slowly rose. "I 'ave some
dooties to attend to," she announced. "If you 'ave
no objection to excusin' met"

With fluttering heart she left them, every fibre of
her sprouting thickly in the warmth of her romantic
idea of the two of them there together, the "two
young people." Mrs. Bamfield was indeed starving
for erotic idealizations. If only she had known of
the works of Mr. Carlyon-Williams, they would have
gone far to satisfy her cravings. Her continual con-
tact with the material final certainties of sex-desire,
with the last demonstrations, all too practically ar-
ranged for, all too sordidly, and all too baldly linked
with five and sixpences, had given her the sentimental

808 BRUTE GODS

aspirations of a schoolgirL Confronted perpetually
by desire's later issue, in a presentment of unnatural
severance, Mrs. Barnfield much required a relieving
and adjusting complicity with first stirrings, shy
beginnings, hopes just bom and frail, longings frail
and insecure, delicate delays and doubtful tremors,
all the early apparatus of blossoming hearts. In
these now she dwelt: match-making thoughts lay
stilled under the generous flow of her romantic emo-
tion.

"Where's that old pen and inkt" cried Betty.

' ' Oh, don 't get it. Don 't get up. ' '

"Well, you wanted it, didn't yout"

Already, before he could struggle with the fact,
she was away from him, on tiptoe, reaching up to the
top of a shelf. She placed before him an egregiously
large, heavy inkstand, with a very small quantity of
thickened ink in the welL He watched her with what
seemed like stupid attention — stupidly dose.

' * There 's some paper in the drawer, or there ought
to be, anyhow!"

She lifted the table cloth and pulled the drawer
open, with a pull so sharp and ungauged that it fell
out on the floor, and paper, old letters, penholders
and nibs, string and ribbons and pins were scattered.
Alec jumped up : they both stooped and gathered the
things from the floor.

"You shouldn't have pulled so hard."

"What I should do and what I do do are two differ-
ent things."

* * Yes, I know. They always are. ' '

DISCLOSURES 809

^'Why don't you come and see me at the ahowt
You might as well."

He did not answer. Their sadden intimacy be-
wildered him, he was bewildered by his sense of the
natural odour of her hair, by the way it involved him.
Alarmed, he protested against his exultation.

''I suppose you're always busy in the evenings.
Mother says you're never in."

"Oh, I — ^I could be." Mrs. Bamfield was her
mother: a remarkable fact.

'*You're lucky. You can do what you like. I
wish I was richl"

''I'm not rich."

''Well, I wish I was a man then. I wish I was
older and could do what I liked. I wish I was as
old as you. Anyhow, it's not as though I was a kid
any more, that's something." She shot the filled
drawer back into its place.

"You're pretty young, though."

"When I'm sixteen — ^that'll be next December —
I'm going to put my hair up, off the stage, I mean I
am. I'm just sick to death of being a flapper!
There's the paper; I wouldn't copy that old stuff
if I were you. Too much like work!" She leaned
over his shoulder, letting her glance rest for a
moment on the page where his eyes were fixed.
"Cheer up, BiUie! You're not dead yet!" She
pinched his coatsleeve.

Alec stood up abruptly and faced the girl.

' ' I must go, ' ' he said. ' ' I must. You see — I have
to go away, you see — " He put out both hands to

810 BRUTE GODS

her, with no will for the act he took her young arms.
'*! can't stay any more — "

*'I say, you're hurting. That's my arm, you know,
thanks awfully. What's up, Billiet What's it all
about t"

'*I didn't mean — " He relaxed his grasp. '*!
didn't know — I'm sorry."

''You're a rum sort of fellow, not knowing what
you're doing." Betty rubbed her arm.

''I didn't mean to hurl you — ^I oughtn't to — I'd
no idea — ^I'd better go, really I had."

''Who's stopping you, thent" She drew back, her
eyes shining at him with the mischief and the pleasure
of her satisfaction. ' ' Good-bye, Billie, I must le-eave
you!" She put one foot forward and struck a stage
pose, chin tilted and eyes upturned. "Parting is such
sweet sorrow, oh ! Did you know they tried to make
me play Juliet, and I couldn't do it for toffee t When
she started seeing snakes and kicking up all that dust
about it, I had to laugh, an' old Tubby got so wild
with me he nearly went off pop! Such times as we
had. Never no more, as the raven said. Not now the
war's over. Three cheers. I always said we'd win
the damn thing," she drawled, "didn't I, Chorliet"

She flung up a leg, caught the toe in her hand, and
on the other toe she spun smoothly round. Alec
looked at her, without a smile. He set tragic eyes on
her foolery.

"Is it hard, doing that t"

"Oh, that's nothing! I'm light, all right, though.

DISCLOSURES 811

aren't It Light on my feet. Tubby says I'm over-
weight, the old beast, says I ought to drink vinegar
and not eat cake or sweets. But I don't weigh so
mueh, do I, not more than I ought, just you see!"
She went to him, very innocently'.

'*No, of course. I — I'm sure you don't weigh too
much."

''Now just look! If I haven't got a spot on my
dress! It's ink, I think it is. However did I go
and do thatt"

''Wheret I don't see it."

''Don't look too hard, you 11 strain your eyesight.
Funny eyes you have. Wouldn't like to meet you
alone on a dark and stormy night."

"Look here. Did I hurt your arm thent"

"Oh, that's all right, don't mention it, the pleasure
is mine! Your eyes are queer, Billie, they're like —
I don't know what. No, you don't!" Pretending to
think he was going to catch at her arms again, she put
her hands on his wrists. "Seems as though they
don't match your hair, yet they do, sort of. Poor
Billie, he loolffl so upset, I bet he's got the toothache.
Which side is it ont"

"You mustn't do that!"

"Poor thing, I didn't know it hurt." She went
on stroking his cheek, her eyes laughed.

"I don't want you to do it!"

He kept on hoping that he had hurt her arm.
There was her parted mouth with its loose curve . . .
he felt . . . how could he feel thatt Betty knew at

812 BRUTE GODS

once what he felt, and she looked at him accordingly.

**I suppose you^re a real good boy, aren't you!"
she observed, after a moment.

" *Good'!'* He was relieved by her having said
something. ''I don't care about that — ^'good' doesn't
matter — ^it wasn't that — "

" 'Good's' what I am, BUlie. That's me."

"Yes, you look as though you were, there's some-
thing — But I suppose you can't be, really!"

**Well, you've nerve! I s'pose you think just be-
cause--oh, what should I care what you think!
Doesn't matter to me."

'*I wouldn't mind if you weren't *good.' "

''Ohl"

"Or if nobody was! I don't believe in that. It's
something quite different — ^how could I tell you! I
can't."

"What's the trouble, Billie! Come on, tell us,
might as well." She was eager and friendly.

"Oh, I've been made an utter fool of, that's all!
It's not your fault — ^but I won't be, not again, I
won't!"

''My fault! I like that!" She laughed uneasily.
He was pale, his eyes looked different, she was in-
terested intensely ... his eyes. . . . His girl was
going with another fellow, she was glad. "Never you
mind, Billie."

' ' Oh, I '11 take good care — I I wish you did know. ' '
He looked closely at her. "Good-bye," he isaid, and
was gone.

The little girl was left puzzled, indignant. She

DISCLOSURES 818

stood quite still, wondering what it would have been
like if he had kissed her. She thought of a boy who
had, and then, at once, she hadn't liked him any more,
she hadn't cared, but, before, she thought she did,
a little. ... It wouldn't have been like that with
BiUie. . . . Why hadn't het ''Kissing's nothing I"
''Damn that old scrapbook!" she thought viciously,
catching sight of it lying open at the page of the
Acrostic verse. She took it and tore the page out.
She crumpled it up fiercely ; then, instead of throwing
it away, she uncrumpled it and read it through.
She wanted him to have it, to keep it. He'd liked it.
Alec, upstairs in his room, lay exhausted. He'd
been flung down, left there. . . . His tears came slow
and crueL

CHAPTER XXVI

IT was no less than appalling to Alec that this
young girl should be able so to invite his mind
and his sense, that she should beckon to him
thus from Gillian's region. For all the dissimilarity
between Betty and Gillian, Betty was offering — ^he had
a frightful conviction of this — ^the same thing in the
end, the same. The shock of this discovery seemed to
have a positive physical force : it smote his brain, then
clutched it and held it, motionless and fascinated, up
against the full face, the brute and punitive face of
the fact disclosed.

In and between the sleep of that night Alec realized
more sharply certain identities of his response to
either girl, identities that were hideous. In the
early morning, and later, there were turnings and
changes of the boy's perceptions, shifting focusses of
other expressions of tbat punitive face, other char-
acter indications not understood, horribly bewildering.
He resolved against the attempt to understand, he re-
solved to banish the whole wicked matter: but those
pain-struck intensities stayed in him, and the two that
empowered them, the two that crossed and merged,
and separated and conflicted, the two that were alien
and akin, kept their torturing play over and through
his senses.

Alec's physical attraction to Gillian was not done

with. It was a more observable thing now, more a

814

DISCLOSURES 816

thing in itself than it had been at first, ^e usoal
reactions against first disguising romantic fervours
would not have had time yet to work their visible way,
but Gillian, in trying to obliterate her physical ap-
peal had thrown the idea of it into Alec's foreground,
she had released him for Betty. Betty had freshened
that emphasis so unwittingly put, she had quickened
and stiffened it for Gillian as well as for herself.
She, the new, the unexpected one, the stranger, could
bear Gillian's tokens; could show them even more
sharply and strongly and stirringly . . . yes, in some
ways she could, he knew now, and she could bring
something else. ... It was Gillian who had spoken
of young love. Alec suddenly thought of Gillian's
encounter with his father that day by the Tower.
Suppose his father had found him with Betty ? Betty
would never have been like Gillian was then, of course
she couldn't... . . He hadn't liked the way Gillian
did all that; he'd never let himself know, before,
how he hadn't liked it. . . . He must go away. Well,
Gillian had wanted him to. Betty didn't want him
to, but he would go. It had to end, all of it. He
would go away from Betty's house, he would stop
wanting Gillian, he had to; he wouldn't take that,
not ever again . . . something that could be shared
. . . and all the lying of the thing, the deceit . . •
vile. He must get ready to go. But he stayed sitting
on his bed, stayed in the clinging horror of his dis-
gust. He had sense of sin now, sense of evil.

A door opened and shut sharply. Alec was con-
scious of a moving about outside on the landing, he

816 BRUTE GODS

sat up stifj^y, alarmed. There was a whistle, and,
after a few moments, Betty's voice calling her mother.
The boy listened.

"What's made you get up so earlyt" He heard
Mrs. Bamfield's voice. ''And all dressed up, tool"

''WeU, I suppose I can get up if I want to, can't
It What you going to do T "

''Gh)in' to dof Mrs. Bamfield's tone showed some
irritation and surprise. "I'm goin' out to buy some
meat"

"What, now, you arel"

"Yes, got my 'at on already. You want to come
alongt"

"I don't know. Think I'll wait awhile."

Alec was conscious of Mrs. Bamfield's descent of
the stairs ; he waited for the sound of the closing of
Betty's door. Had she closed it without his hearing?
He waited for what seemed a very long time, then he
heard, distinctly, a quite different sound — ^the drum-
ming of the girl's fingers on the bannisters. At once
he went out to her.

"What do you want!" he asked.

"Oh!" She started, she laughed uneasily. "Well,
I like that I ' ' Recovering herself, she looked straight
at him. "Asking me what I want, you've got a
nerve! Ill have a Scotch and potass, Miss, and be
quick about it ! — Come along, Billie, come along down,
might as well. Come and talk to us, Billie."

He followed her slowly, he noticed her thin brown
stockings.. "I'm going away today," he said.

DISCLOSURES 817

She did not aiigwer, she went straight on into the
parlour, and as soon as he was there with her, she
shut the door tight.

''Don't you like me, eh, Billiet" There was no
levity now, no coquetry, in her tone or manner. She
looked hard at him, she stood quite still.

"Why should I tell youf he said, turning.
"What's the good of telling yout"

"I wouldn't ask you, only I know you do."

"Well, all right.*' He took a step towards the
door. "If I tell you that, won't it dot" It seemed
impossible to get to the door, past her. All he had
done was to bring himself nearer her. "I mean,
wouldn't you let me go then!"

"Let you go, what do yoil mean, Billiet You like
me, but you won't— Whyt"

"I told you I couldn't. Didn't I tell you! I
mustn't."

" 'Mustn't' 1 Silly! You should just see the
bruise you made on my arm," she went on with ap-
parent irrelevance. ' ' It looks like anything this morn-
ing. Here's that old book." She moved over to the
shelf, stooped down, leaned her head so that her black
curls slipped over, showing her neck. "I don't want
that poem thing." She pretended to tear the page
out, then took it from her dress without his seeing.
"You keep it, if you want."

"All right. I mean, thank you. — ^I must go up-
stairs, you know, and pack."

"Haven't had your breakfast, have yout"

818 BRUTE GODS

''I don't want any. I mean I do, rather, but 111
go out soon. Ill go out now. There's a plaee quite

near."

''I can make coffee, I make it all right, and there's
some eggs."

*'It's a place by the Station — ^you know. It's
where I nearly always go."

"You've got a nice handkerchief."

**Yes. It's my father's, though." He pulled it
from his sleeve. ''I took it by mistake, I had it
washed. Would you like itt"

"It's a lovely one. All silk."

"You could wear it somehow, couldn't you!"

She took it from him, shook it out, looked at it.
The pleasure of possessing it diverted her. She went
to the glass and put the handkerchief round her hair,
holding it with her hand behind her head. "Looks
all right, doesn't itt"

"Keep it. You could wear it. Couldn't you wear
it close to you!"

' ' What d 'you mean, Billie t " She laughed.

"I don't know, I only thought — "

He stood, seeing her broad laughing mouth with its
generous animalism. He thought of Gillian's mouth,
the inteUectual turn it had. Betty was nearer —
nearer to something. Ah, she was differenil She
didn't understand, but her brain kept still.

" 'Thought' I" She came to him, her mouth still
laughing. * ' You do like me I You 're funny I What
do you think of us, Billie t I'm all right — ^you know
what I mean — " She let her arms drop, touching

DISCLOSURES 810

him lightly. "I haven't liked any one else, I never
have! What do you think, Billier'

"I told you—''

*'I didn't mean anything — ^you know — " She
blushed.

She was grave again now, her breath came brokenly.
Alec leant to her, and the fragrance of a young fresh
girl, a little agitated by love, began to seduce his
nostrils. Was this what Gillian had said he ought
to have? He wouldn't, he couldn't! Beginning all
over again. . . . Alec revolted with a strength that
swept him dear of the drawing of the tide. .

'*I didn't mean anything we oughtn't," Betty went
on.

''Oh, itisn't^fca*/''

**I know all about Mother's letting rooms. You
don't think I'm — ^you don't think I'm like that, do
you t I wouldn 't answer the bell, I wouldn 't ! "

He did not reply. He saw her pleading lips, her
troubled young eyes, and he turned his head. The
passionate loveliness of things flashed before him, he
rejected it.

''Let me go," he told her, with a decision that could
not be defied or cajoled. "You must."

REFUGE

CHAPTER XXVII

Betty, your eyea damce daum my heart,
Byee gay and grey and wide apart.
That shine icith teasing mirth, and yet
Teasing, they're hind. . . .

ALEC, in the train from Liverpool Street, read
over the ingenious artist's Acrostic Verse ; he
smoothed out that crumpled sheet again.

The important thing to him was to get six pounds.
He had spent just about that amount. If he could
pay Wilfred back the whole twenty, at once, that
would be destroying one trace, at least : that was some-
thing that could be done. The boy's mind seized
avidly on the idea of this payment, and clung hard to
it. For some minutes he thought of nothing else,
he held by a recurring effort of will to the refuge of
this determination somehow to get six pounds: but
he could not work his mind further, could not de-
vise any plan, however improbable, by whicli the
money could be got.

Six pounds. . . . **Envy of April.'* . . . **Love-
ringlets'' . . . how did it end upt

No coming flower or hloom half-sealed
For me hlotos sweeter up the field
In spring than you, dear girl of spring —
Envy of April, you who bring
Love-ringlets young and rioh and fine.
Deep Ups that mate with song and wine,

323

824 BRUTE GODS

Aleo read in those initial letters the name of the
girl who had touched his ailmg love and shown it to
him, a dead thing. But he did not — ^he would not!
— ^love her. Not again — he eouldn't face it again*
He crumpled the sheet and threw it from the hurry-
ing train. Six pounds. . . . After all those passionate
intimations of Uf e, only dead brute things left, brute
dead gods. He had been so certain I

He thought of what this love had done, this love
that had been so cunning and brutal and mortal a
trickster, this lo ve that was dead. Frippie — ^Father
CoUett — ^he had been made to forget them, he had been
closed, insensate, against them, they had been left, for-
gotten like that bicycle that he left by the side of the
road. Doreen, too. . . . Then, his father —

Alec's love had robbed him of his hate. The wrongs
of his brother, his stepmother. Aunt Cathy, his mother,
could cry for vengeance in vain. Now both love and
hate were gone. He could have done something with
that hate, at least he could have started, with strong
impulse, from it This he knew, and he knew that now
he had nothing, that he was left in weakness and in
deprivation.

It was not his disloyalty, his breach of faith to
Gillian, it was no such ''moral'' stir that hurt him.
It was the demolition of what had seemed the very
fabric of himself, it was the revolutionary shattering
of all those high controlling values that were to have
held sway for ever. ... He had been forced, some-
how, in some unseen w^r, unawares, robbed, tricked.
A terrible trick— wicked — a sinister and grinning

REFUGE 826

hoax. Yet he had loved GiUiaiiy he had been Oil-
lian. It had all been real and great, it had been!
Yet it was gone. He could trust nothing in himself,
after this; he could value nothing, hold to nothing.
Betty . . . how different from Gillian she was! No,
he didn't love her, he only wanted her: it was some-
thing much less, yet it had driven out the other.
Alec did not acknowledge the first processes of his
love's decline, nor could he estimate Gillian's ^fnl
part in them.

Gillian, whose love was alive, did acknowledge and
estimate. She paraded every sign noted in those last
days, paraded, watched, and made much of each in
turn. It was not that she lacked the usual female
inclination against admitting anything wounding to
sex-dignity : she had it strongly, and fought it strongly,
both on principle and to help herself by the occupa-
tion. She looked at herself in the glass, she observed
her mouth; and she thought how it must have lost
its power for him, day by day, hour by hour. Per-
hai)S her freedom from moral inhibitions had helped
to take the edge off his desire. Ah, but she had
wanted to do that ! — ^It would have been better for her
to have been less ''emancipated." Better still for
her to have been ten years younger. She thought of
Alec, with his experimental boldness of a novice.
There was still her ''work". . . . A man and a woman
shouldn't have to stay together if either of them
didn't want to— hadn't she worked to prove the truth
and the justice of that? He didn't want to. . . .
The magazine . . , "the policy of the magazine"

826 BRUTE GODS

. . . her sense of her importance, her ''purpose/'
her independence. Alec had taken her old life from
her. At least, then, he should not have tired of her
so soon! ''He ought not to! he belongs to me! he
doesn't want me!" She watched the emotional flash
of her condemnation of him, she shivered in her de-
tached brain. "Women should have more pride!"
The word "pride" sounded extraordinarily cold.
The freezing implications of her loss were traced on
her mind with sharp little points like the pricks of
an icicle. As a moral reformer she dutifully invoked
the solace of the reflection that she suffered not from
any human contrivance touching sex, but from an ill
inherent in sex itself.

She wished she did not feel so sorry for Alec. It
would have been easier if she could have felt angry,
bitter, really indignant. But her mind wouldn't give
indignation or anger a chance : her mind was a wither-
ing glare for such relieving emotions. To be denied
the safeguard of unreason, that was tragic, it was
cruel. Carlyon-Williams had been right when he'd
called it an inhuman trick of hers^ that trick of ex-
posing and criticizing her womanish promptings.
Perhaps if she had followed her impulse and turned
on Alec, turned on him savagely ... oh, she could
have held him, she would have reconciled herself to
holding him, in spite of everything, if she had been
different, if i^he had not had that abominably scrupu-
lous regard for intelligence ! Why shouldn't she have
played her game, played for her own hand, been a
little less cursedly honest with herself and with him t

REFUGE 827

Deception wonld have been better for both of them,
and much prettier. . . . Qillian was convinced, now,
that if she hadn't been so stifBj, so sophisticatedly
honest and proud, if she had let her intellectual con-
science go to the devil, and moved unscrupulously,
skilfully, in her will, she might have stayed with the
boy in a ten years' marriage at the least, binding him
to her all the while by the strands of a hundred ideali-
ties. Carlyon-Williams could get more out of life
than she could, after all! She reflected that it was
no doubt from jealouqr that she despised Williams.

To have kept her brain nagging at her love, at the
boy's love, as she had! To have allowed such a
tyranny, which was, after all, stupid! If only she
could have been like Doreen Burke. . . . She had been
frantically moral, in her way, had adhered with her
fanatic brain-conscience to that determined premise of
the inequality between them, the impossibility of his
loving her for long. It was precisely the most rapid
and the most sure way of destro3dng Alec's — ^Alec's —
his feeling for her. Tears were in her eyes, on her
cheeks. The betrayal and the corrosion of love by a
thing so studied, so conscious, so made-up and so small
— ^it was small now — as her morality ! It had robbed
them both, meanly: her brain and its morality had
robbed them. It would have been so easy to make her-
self believe, and him through her, that their glamour
was light eternal. They could have gone on together,
she was sure — sure of that now. Even at the very end,
if it had not been for her ridiculous ** clear vision,"
and her pride, she could have won him back. If she

828 BRUTE GODS

had summoned even so simple, so natural a quality as
tact ... the tact that she was entirely capable of,
but that her ''intellectual honesty '' habitually com-
pelled her to reject.

When, on her return that day from her Office, she
saw the boy walking along the street near her flat,
her love for him gave her a new touch. He was a day
too soon. He had come sooner than she had said
. . . just as he had that time before. Her idea of
his expectancy, his impatience of Hie interval, shot
eagerly to embrace her answer to it. Seeing her, he
drew his lips grimly: ''I wanted to ask you," he
began, ''I waited so as to ask you — " He seemed to
be trying to remember something ihai he had learnt
by heart : then to her ''Well, what!'' he replied: *'I
would like to marry you, I still want to, you know."
His tone was controversial. Without answering, she
walked on with him by her side till they reached her
door, and, feeling for her latchkey, "Why didn't you
go home before!" she asked him. "Before you'd
found out, before I had to — I told you to — ^you
know." She suffered from her hurt indignant voice,
and at once she sharply wondered what would have
happened if she had pretended to misunderstand him,
if she had said yes. At least she would have made
it different then, and need she have made it what it
wast Need she have made him say: "May I go
thent" Need she have had to turn from him so
that he should not see her eyes t Need that door have
closed, dividing themt The questions lodged with
her. She felt wicked because, now that she knew

REFUGE 829

he did not want to many her, she could wish so
much more urgently than ever that she had brought
the marriage about. She knew nothing of Betty.
"Even if she had given him the chance, he could not
have told her.

As she undressed, Gillian thought of Carlyon-Wil-
liams. The thought of him relieved her, he could be
a sort of occupation, why nott She would make
him one. She could touch Alec through him, through
the stepmother, she wouldn't lose him altogether. . . .
TVhat if Mrs. Glaive came back to Alec, through hert
She would still have a sort of power in his life, then.
"But what does that matter!" — ''ITl do it anyhow I
I'll do it out of sheer devilry! It will be some-
thing—"

>

CHAPTER XXVIII

LEG, you must wait.*'

"But I can make it certain, can't I —
somehow — at once!"

**How!'' Father CoUett turned away.

''I mean make it so that I can't get out of it.
You can 't get out of it, can you ! ' '

'*Not after the final vows."

** Can't you take the final vows at once!"

**My dear Alec, why are they called 'final'! How
in the world could you take them first! There must
be probation."

''But I must take them, I want to bind myself
now. Don't you see, I can't wait!"

His mouth shook. It was utterly unbearable to
him, this delay. When he had wanted to marry Gil-
lian, he couldn't: now that he wanted to take religious
vows, there was the same horrible putting off. He
other way was there! Alec felt that it would be tor-
ture to have to stand by himself, to stand, to move,
unbound.

"It makes me afraid it won't last. Alec, you are
so eager — "

"Oh, it will, but I don't want to give anything
else a chance of happening in between! I won't.
Look here. Father; 111 make it final, I'll make it

330

REFUGE 881

final now, I can. I pray God — ^you hear what I'm
saying t — I pray Him to destroy me, my sotd, I mean,
altogether, if I don't take the final vows and keep to
them. I wish that. It's my will, and I'll always
stand by it, I swear to God ! ' '

Alec felt that this declaration would be of enormous
import to Father CoUett : he could not feel, try as he
might, that it was of even considerable import to him-
self.

''You've no right to use God in that way!" The
priest, for the first time in Alec's experience, showed
anger.

''Why nott Can't I make myself safet Can't I
get God to make me safet What is the good of him
if I can'tt"

"(Jod chooses His own way of helping fretful and
disappointed children. He doesn't choose theirs."

"But you always wanted me to take the religious
life, you said I — "

"Yes. But not like this. What has happened to
you. Alec!" He spoke less sternly, much more
sadly.

You know. I told you."

It's just because you thought you were in love
and then found you weren 't ? "

"It's because I want to get out of the way of all
that, well out of the way, for good and all! I must
make sure it won't happen again, that's the only im-
portant thing!"

"The only important thing! It wouldn't be right.
Alec, on those grounds."

it

882 BRUTE GODS

*^Do you mean you wouldn't receive met"

*'WelL I don't know. I don't know what they —
You mustn't press me. Alec. I must think, I must
pray."

"Tou must tell me, please, at once, whether you will
or not. If you won't, I shall find something else to
do." He got up.

''Youlldowhatt"

"I don't know, but I won't come back to you. I'll
never come back."

*'I couldn't have believed you would take such
advantage of my affection." Father CoUett was pale.
''How she has changed you!" he added, with in-
tense bitterness.

''Well, wiU yout"

"I'll give no promise. I decline absolutely to
promise. I will not be stampeded in this way, Alec,
it's outrageous, you've no right — " The boy turned
to the door. ' ' You must listen to me, you must stay ! ' '

"What fort"

' ' Oh, Alec, you make me betray myself so terribly I
If I did let you gp, what would happen thent I
suppose I have no right to inquire into your motives,"
he said weakly, "to take advantage of my private
knowledge — "

"You will let me join the Order thent"

"I'll ask Father Benel to receive you as a postu-
lant."

"That will do."

"It must be with your father's permission. You're
not yet twenty."

REFUGE 888

"Oh, hell give it. When do you leave here!"

''I go to Webley next week. I shall have to eome
back for awhile."

''I can go next week thent"

* 'Yes. Say the week after next. ' '

**A11 right But I've taken the vows now, I've
taken them. And you have to live away from every-
body, don't you! Away from women and every-
thing!"

**Yes: there is no outer life. I warn you, Alec —
the mortification of the flesh — ^that's only a phrase to
you. Perhaps you won't stand it."

''Oh, I'D stand that."

"The fasting, the long periods of silence. They
have adopted a modified form of the Trappist Rule.
For many days you would be thrown absolutely
upon meditation and prayer, upon yourself, under
God."

"Oh, but I could do that, there would be the others.
It would be — ^you'd have to, I mean. That's why
I could." He "had been so far weakened, destroyed
so far.

"You would have no money, ever."

"I know. There's nothing in that, though; except
that I do want six pounds, now."

"Dear boy; do you think you really — do you think
you knowf

"Yes, Idol"

Father CoUett, praying God for guidance, looked
at the boy's hardened face.

"And this has all come from me," he said. "Why

if

884 BRUTE GODS

do we struggle to read God's wayst He uses even
sin. . . . Alec, she is my daughter/'

''Oh. Your daughter) Oillian is, you meant
Oh, yes, you told me about your having — ^I remem-
ber. ' ' Finding the pause awkward, Alec added : ' ' I
hadn't thought of that, somehow. — ^I say, I'm sorry
I never wrote to you. — ^I haven't been home yet,"
he said hesitatingly.

It's very late. You had better sleep here."
Yes. You see I came by the last train. The
seven something. What time does it leave! Seven
thirty-seven— or twenty-seven. That new train."
He wanted to ask for a timetable. ''You know,
Father, it's twenty-seven, I'm almost sure." He
went on about the train with a dreamy tenacity, e^
queer brooding absorption.

"Well, 111 get out some sheets for you. So you
came from the Station straight to met"

"Oh, yes. I wanted to make certain about the
monastery — ^the Order."

"Do you want me for anything elset" Father
Collett winced.

"Yes, if you could lend me six pounds. I want to
give it back to Wilfred Vail. He lent it to me to go
to London with."

"Oh, you asked himf

' ' I couldn 't have asked you, not for that, could 1 1
I'll get the six pounds from my father soon, but I'd
rather, you see, just for the time — "

"Of course I'll lend it to you."

REFUGE 886

''Thanks awfully." Alec spoke with immense re-
lief. "If you could let me have it tonight!'*

The priest assented. He looked hurt and worn.
He thought of his prayers for Alec, of how he had
prayed that Alec should be called to the religious
life, to spiritual dedication. Qod had answered, and
not answered him. It was all disquietingly different
from his expectation. Father Gollett was entangled
in wrong-seeming complications of feeling that vexed
him deeply, troubled him deeply. He felt sharply
his own weakness, he wondered if God, in a£9icting
him with weakness, could think it just to punish Alec
with the weakness as well as himself. Would that
be justt He shuddered at his doubt. Only today
Alec was with Gillian. ''She lost him too," he
thought, and could not but be comforted by that.

CHAPTER XXIX

MR. OLAIYE himself opened the front door
the next morning to his returning son.
He had seen him from the Study window.
*'So you're back," he said. '*YouVe heard what's
happened t She 's left him. ' '

**Whot''

''Run away to the Continent. She's taken up
capital, no doubt. None of her dividends are due
till next month, that I know. It proves I was right,
it was all a trick to disgrace me and the family.
Sheer malice. She never cared for him, he didn't,
eithei>-"

"Oh, you mean Williams and — "

''That man and his mistress, yes. She's written,
says she'll never come back, says she'll live alone.
Simple spite, of course. Not that I would ever dream
of receiving — "

Alec walked with his father into the diningroom.
Aunt Cathy, the only person there, rose on their en-
trance and advanced in a frightened and questioning
manner.

"Oh, Sidneyl"

"Alec come back. Been staying with those friends

of his — ^you know, school-friends, Mellor, that's the

name, isn't itt"

886

REFUGE 887

*• 'McUor't— oh, yea/'

Mrs. Mowiy reguded them both with melancholy
agitation. ''How long ago was it,*' she went on sos-
picionsly, ''since that Dick Mellor came to stay with
nst Alee was almost a little boy. "

"Yes, yes, quite early in the war. When one's
friends still had their men servants."

"You're going to stay at home now. Alec, aren't
yoat" Mrs. Mowry asked intently.

"No, I'm not, that's what I was going to-*-"

"As I was saying, the whole thing's utterly beneath
contempt But th^'re the ones that are hurt most
The man can't help not being a gentleman, of course.
... Do you remember, Catherine, he pronounced
'valet' 'vally'f The right people— the people who
have them, you know — of course they call them
'valets', AngUdse the word. An outsider — "

"I feel so thankful that she's no longer— that she's
olontf, now."

"We have dismissed the whole matter, Catherine.
I would ask you to remember that — ^I was going to
read you this leading article." He took up the news-
paper and settled himself in a chair. " Remarkably
sound. Ah, there's Mervyn. Alec came b^ck from
the Mellors this morning, I meant to have told you
yesterday. I want you to hear this, remarkably well
put, just what I was telling Besine the other day."
He proceeded to read aloud to them, he soon felt as
though he had written the article himself, he read it
as though he had.

The boys stood uneasily by the door. They had

888 BRUTE GODS

hardly looked at one another. Mrg. Mowry sat with
an air of patient intelligence, her hands clasped.
Alec thought of the last time the four of them were
assembled; he thought of Frippie, wondered how it
could be that Frippie was so utterly blotted out.

The reading ended, and the boys escaped abruptly.
Alec felt disturbed by his brother's presence. Of
course Mervyn would a^ him questions, and he
wouldn 't be able to tell him, he couldn 't possibly make
him understand. Until they got to the shrubbery,
well away from the house, neither of them spoke.
Then Mervyn said suddenly : ' * The day's fixed. ' '

''Fixed? Whatist"

*'My gettin' married, of course, what d'you think!
Twenty-second of September."

' ' Well, you don 't care about her, do you ! ' *

''Shut up. What are you rubbin' it in for!"

"It's a good thing you don't, that's what I mean.
You ought to be glad you aren't in love, it's a good
thing, it is really, I tell you I know — "

"Don't talk rot."

"It isn't rot, I tell you. I mean you won't be like
me, you'll never have that sort of — It'd be awful
having it if you were married, it'd be even worse,
you see. I never will, though, I '11 take good care ! ' '

"What the deuce are you babblin' about! You
know what I found out! The guv 'nor had a book
sent him, some book about cuckolds, that means men
whose wives aren't on the square — ^and it was old
Resine who sent it, what d'you think of that, turned
down the page, foolin' the guv 'nor, d'you see!

>>

REFUGE 889

''I wish to God I could tell himi"

'* Why don't yon then!'*

''Not mnch wedding then, yon bet, but, Lord, I
can't, it'd be too low down."

''How good you are!" said Alec contemptuously.

" 'Good'! What do you meant I'm not 'good.'
Simply can't do it, that's all, wish I could. Damn
nuisance."

"Perhaps it wouldn't make any difference."

"Of course it would, you ass. Don't I know the
guv 'nor t One thing he can't stand at any price,
bein' laughed at. He'd never forgive Besine, never
would; do anything to spite him."

' ' Well, I 'd tell him. ' ' Alec was listless.

"Can't. I got to know through Dolly, you see
that's why I couldn't possibly — Wouldn't be fair,
anyhow. Oh, damn. Don't suppose the whole busi-
ness matters so awful much, after all."

Alec did not feel inclined to contradict him, but
" Anything 's fair," he said, "when everything's so
unfair. ' '

"What's that! Damn funny way of talkin'."

"Life's only like a sort of cheap suit, that's all, not
worth taking care of, isn't worth keeping clean, or
anything."

"Aunt Cathy gets on my nerves. You know she
got wind of my wantin' to back out, guv 'nor told her,
I suppose, an' she said she'd given Nita some things,
blest if I remember what they were, family things,
bloomin' lace or something, and she nearly started

840 BRUTE GODS

blubbin' over the idea of havin' to take them back.
Women are the limit. She said we'd make such a
handsome pair. Pair of trousers. Then there's old
Besine," he went on more fretfully. Alec noticed
that he looked older, noticed a little twist of set ill-
humour about the comers of his lips — he wasn't so
goodlooking. ''Old Resine, with that 'As I alwajrs
say' — ^you know. Makes me sick. 'A bird in the
handy as I always say.' 'She's no chicken, as I al-
ways say.' 'Tell it not in Gath, as I always say.'
And Mrs. Besine's gettin' fatter an' fatter, looks it
aU the more when she's dressed up, like she will be
at the wedding. Says she thinks of me as her 'real
son' now, says I must call her 'Mother.' God, what
bindlesl"

"I say, what was it like when you first found out
that you didn 't care about Nita any more t ' '

' ' Oh, shut up. I don 't know. ' '

"'Don't know' 1"

"It was so beastly gradual, I didn't think about it
at first, didn't want to think. . . ."

"It wasn't that way with me. It was — "

Alec broke off. Mervyn evidently had no interest
at all in the way it was with him. There was the
guv 'nor, thinking of nothing but the Williams busi-
ness, and there was Mervyn only thinking about this
marriage . . . both of them the same.

"I'm going to join the Order at Webley," he an-
nounced, raising his voice against his brother's in-
difference.

REFUGE 841

'*What for! You aren't really, are you, bet you
get fed up. ' '

''No, I shan't, I—"

"111 get used to it all right, I suppose — "

**0h, that's all you seem to be able to — "

"Oh, well." Mervyn stared, still invoking the
pokonous leer of custom. ''Well, what's the idea!"
He broke his eonsoUng reflection. "Devilish lively
idea, I must say . "

"WhatTl the guv'nor dot"

"Oh, 'won't trouble him. Oet you off his hands.
Hell save money. Besides, it's a fairly classy thing
to do, joining an Order. It occurred to me, you know,
about Dolly. Of course we couldn't marry. If she
had to be a servant, that's what I've been thinkin',
why the devil shouldn't she go and get some money
out of it? Get well paid. They are, now. More
than I could do for her. "Why shouldn't she, eh!"
He seemed much impressed.

" 'Classy'! Why is it classy!'*

"What, housework! Oh, that bloomin' monastery.
Who's the chap who runs it, some relation to Lord
Beauvais, isn't he!"

"Father Benel."

"Oh, yes, he's an 'Honourable.' That's good
enough, that'll settle it with the guv'nor. Oood old
guv'nor, don't worry about him. He'll come out all
right one way and another, don't you fear."

Alec remembered how he had thought of killing
his father. Now, he wouldn't have raised his hand.

842 BRUTE GODS

Mervyn was silent. He was thinking about the mar-
riage, of course, about Nita or Dolly. The guv 'nor
was thinking about the Mater in France or somewhere.
Aunt Cathy • . • she was no good: thinking about
her lace, perhaps, thinking of one little thing after
another, the way she talked. Alec wanted to go to
Wilfred Vail, but he shrank from having to admit
to Wilfred that it was all over so soon. Now that he
had the six pounds it did not seem so important to
give it back, and there was pain for him in the prospect
of meeting his friend, because they really liked one
another.

CHAPTER XXX

THE visit to Wilfred Vail hung waiting for
more than a month, until Alec's refuge at
Webley was settled and immediate. Mer-
vyn's departure with his bride for Derbyshire diverted
the dull strong shallow current of Alec's persistency,
brought him an intervening loneliness and heavy won-
dering that turned him to his friend.

A letter from Qillian, received on the morning after
his brother's wedding, gave the boy further need of
Wilfred Vail. He could not understand the letter,
which Gillian had written for the mere relief of
writing it, her conscious reason being that she must
make a last effort at clarifying the situation by honesty
and frankness. Her ''sheer devilry" had failed her
sadly, and she tried to describe the poor collapse of
the mood in which she had wanted to act with Wil-
liams, who, when she met him, had heard of Miriam's
escape to France. She had seen him fresh from the
blow; she pictured, with an irony wasted on Alec,
his ** fortitude," his **unshattered faith." She pre-
sented an image of the successful idealist, his faith
unshattered, turning his fine back on the changeling
faces of his misadventures. She was candid enough
to admit that she was edged by a malice not free from
envy. *'Why should she envy Williams t" Alec
thought. ''Because he isn't in love, because she's un-

843

844 BRUTE GODS

happy f He reflected vaguely: his reflection had
little to do with him.

He found Wilfred reading a book about agricul-
tural machinery. His friend's familiar look of mild
and lucid satisfaction struck him freshly ; but^ unlike
Gillian, he was not envious. He knew that what Wil-
fred had was not what he himself could have had,
but had missed. Wilfred got up and regarded him
closely.

**Well," he said, ''so you got tired of your new
toy.''

''Oh, you think that was all it—all I—"

"I knew you were bound to take it seriously, how-
ever it went. Well. And how far did you got We
may as well stroll in the garden, that's something you
can do under any circumstances. Without indecorum.
I was thinking about you this morning." He took
Alec's arm and they went out together. "Now about
your affair f I gather, from developments, that it
must have been something more than, shall we say
romantically Platonic t"

"Oh, yesi"

"Your first, then. And herst"

"Of course!"

' ' Gtood. ' ' Wilfred nodded benevolently. ' ' Forgive
my unseemly curiosity. — ^That's to your credit, Alec.
Virginity is a grace at sixteen, an inconvenience at
twenty, and a curse at twenty-five. Politics are rather
interesting just now. There's no doubt, you know,
that your father is a very clever man."

"I hope I'm not clever, then."

REFUGE 846

''No. Ton might have been a sort of a genins with
a few additions and alterations, but your qualities
were put together so that they wouldn't work. Who
knows, thought They may. Don't let me depress
your'

**I don't want them to work — "

**Your father's qualities certainly work admirably.
Look at those roses, they'll soon be gone. That fellow
Perry ought to give him a testimonial, but no doubt
hell give himself one instead. I like the yellow ones
the best, the yellow roses. He's getting on famously,
certain of the seat now, absolutely certain. But what
a mistake that was, that affair in Ireland, killing
Matcham, whoever did it — "

''Mateham! What do you— t"

"Didn't you know t In this morning's paper. He
was shot in one of those Irish brawls. ' '

* ' Who shot him t ' ' Alec 's voice shook.

**A stray bullet, so they say. It was probably ar-
ranged. Yes, he was shot dead."

'*What do you mean, 'arranged't"

' ' Oh, people will fight just as hard to keep what they
have as to get what they haven't. They'll fight
harder. More unscrupulously. I don't blame them,
but this was a stupid thing. Your father knows
better. He knows how to keep his head and do little
things in the right way. Funny what little things
please them. Yes, and it's a funny thing, Alec, but
it's perfectly true, that a man will fight with more
energy and more passion to keep his position in society
— ^his town house, his country house, his big motor

846 BRUTE GODS

— ^than he will to get food when he and his family
haven't enough of it. That's why the economic rev-
olution is impossible. Don't you think of these
things f You 11 realize when you 're a bit older, you 11
know — "

'^ What's the use of knowing things like thatt I
don't want to. Thank Ood, I'll be out of it, I'll be
out of all that— "

"Oh, we have to know how to take it, of course."

"It's awful, about Matcham. I shall never forget
him. Ill never foi^et that time I heard him speak."

"Oh, that speech about the 'brute gods.' Tes, you
told me. Solemn trivialities — ' '

"I didn't know Love was a brute god, though, not
then. Matcham — He made me see — ^in a sort of
way, though it wasn't clear. But he set me going.
Then I was stopped. That other thing. ' '

"How hard you take it. After all, what is it that's
happened to you T You fell in love, and you fell out
of love. The mask dropped more quicUy than usual,
apparently. The rose-pink maak. Mask of rose.
Well, it dropped, and you were terribly shocked and
jolted, of course you were. But yours is an end-
lessly common experience."

"It isn't common. Not the way it happened to me.
Oh, it was such beastly lying, it was such treachery
and deceit!"

"It always is. Love's the eternal impostor. A
brutal betrayal, I suppose it is, and it always will be,
no help for that. 'Whom God hath joined — ' Was

REFUGE 847

that divine irony or merely celibate ignorance, I
wonder t"

''I sappose I was hit too soon and too hard, too
many things at the same time — different things all
at once. It sounds absard, but I really do feel finished.
I don 't feel I can start again. I can 't stand anything
more of that sort."

Why not try something of a different sort, then?"
That's just what I am doing. I'm joining that
Order of Father Collett's, the one at Webley. It's all
settled now."

*'0h, dear, yes. I've heard, of course. I don't
take it seriously in the least. You'd never be fat
enough for a monk. This is the place where we felt
that sudden warm breath of wind, you remember t
Last summer or- the summer before. Strawberries
were in season at the time, and I knew nothing about
motors. You've grown up since then, I cazn see you
have. A little bit, anyhow?"

**It's horrible, brute force. . . . And Matcham had
a fine face. I remember just how he looked. A bul-
let can break a brain, you can't get over that. Just
brute force. It's how things are. It's awfully deep
down in everything, and it's horrible. You can't
stop it anyhow. You said yourself that if the brute
gods were pulled down there 'd only be new ones grow
up. That's true. I can't stand it. I suppose it's
human nature I can't stand — ^human nature in me
too, perhaps — "

' ' Oh, quarrel with the world as much as you like I
Why not t Let 's go to lunch. ' '

848 BRUTE GODS

''The queer thing is that though it was I who left
off being in love with Qillian, she 11 get over it and I
won't/'

"No." Wilfred led him back towards the house.
"You won't get over it in that Order of yours, where
I expect you'll stay a couple of months. I said you'd
grown up, but you may be something of a baby even
now. I can't believe in this irreconcilable quarrel
with human nature at your age. You'll grow out of
that."

"It would be much worse if I did. But I don't
want to 'quarrel' with human nature, with the world.
I do know I can't help and I can't stay in it, the
whole thing's too horribly clear. I can't live it out.
And I can't kill myself. I couldn't even kill my
father. I don't think I'm a baby now in any way
that will help me. Of course if I were stronger I
wouldn't be doing this, I know that. But then if I
were weaker, I wouldn't either."

"But be practical. The point is, don't let Nature
quarrel with you. No one could be less intended for
abstinetice. And after that affair in London, of course
that'll make it worse. What will happen is — to put
it plainly — " He put it plainly, and vividly.

* * Oh, that 's nothing. I can easily put up with that
Oh, I forgot, here's that money. Thanks awfully."

"Well, I'm damned!" Wilfred stopped and
examined the notes that lay in his palm. He was
visibly impressed by the presence, within so small
a compass, of such considerable purchasing powen
"That don't look much i' th' hand," he observed

REFUGE 849

dowly, in Suffolk. ''But that fare a lot t' part wuth.
Don't you want to keep some of itt" He continued
to regard the money, his expression was half -puzzled,
it was unworldly. **If I buy a new lathe now, I
shall feel just as though you had given it to me."

*'That's what interests youl"

"Did I hurt your feelings t I'm sorry. But after
all, however bad the world is^ there are still motors,
and cigarettes. We've time for one before lunch, I
think."

They turned back down the path, smoking, and Alec
felt that it would be hard to part with Wilfred. ' How
well Wilfred could get on, without being bound!
The boy, occupied painfully with their friendship, be-
came inattentive.

** You see," Wilfred was saying, "you've sown your
wild oats in such a tearing hurry that the crop won't
grow. Not in the right way. That's what I 'm afraid
of. You 11 have to do it all over again. You always
were impatient."

"I've thought about that. This sex thing. It's
either marriage or 'wild oats' or cutting off alto-
gether. I'd rather cut off, and I don't think I'll
want to change, whatever happens. Marriage would
be worse." He thought this would appeal to his
friend. "Marriage would be worse than the Order."

"Ah, well then, why not give debauchery a trial t
* There were three young men of St. Louis, The
pandar,^ the rake, and the rou6 — ' But I'm perfectly
serious. You need a purge of some sort. A month or
two of unbridled dissipation in, sigr^ Fort Said or

850 BRUTE GODS

Tangier — something quite new — ^woiild get all this out
of your system. With the proper precautions. Of
course I can't recommend these places personally, but
I have the authority of a friend who's very trust-
worthy in such matters. I 'd even lend you the twenty
pounds again, you've repaid it so promptly. Twenty
pounds would pay your fare one way, anyhow."

Alec shook his head with a strained smile. ''Of
course debauchery is less seriouB than marriage/' he
said, **but it's sillier."

"Impossible. Why rail at marriage, thought We
aren't married. So it's to be this religious Order.
For life, I suppose?"

' ' Certainly for life. I have to be a postulant first,
but that doesn't — "

'*My dear boy, you'll be out of it before you're half-
way through your postulating."

"I shan't be."

"Forgive me if I show lack of tact, but you haven't,
I suppose, any actual religious belief T"

"Oh, I think I have. Does that matter t Yes, I
have. If anything is right, religious belief is right.
I mean the real thing, of course."

' ' The sort of thing you get in Orders t ' '

"The belief Father CoUett has. It must be right
because it's so utterly against — "

"Human nature!"

"Yes, and against the world. Yes."

"You show me religion as the last resort of the
pessimist."

They were silent, then Alec said suddenly: "Gil-

REFUGE 851

lian told me once that women — *' He stopped. The
cleverness in the ring of her words made him shy of
repeating them. ''She said women had always been
the camp-followers of the big battalions."

''Excellent. A capital phrase."

"Well, that's what we all are, it's what we all turn
into if we stay here long enough. You won't, of
course, but then I couldn't be you. Most people, if
they escape one of the battalions, they find them-
selves in with another."

"But isn't that what you're doing with religion t"

"That's not the same. It's outside the battalions,
it's sort of oflf their ground. — It's my only way, Wil-
fred, don 't try to argue me out of it. "

"I wouldn't for anything make you more deter-
mined by opposition. I know you, you see. When
your mouth goes like that, you might as well try
to argue with a seized back-a^de or a broken crank-
shaft. If you must go running for refuge to the
arms of a staggering faith — I wish your Gillian had
lasted longer. I like that phrase of hers. I '11 pass it
on to Teddy. Being a doctor^ hell appreciate it.
Most doctors despise women, did you knowT It's
because they — "

"You see, you can go on, Wilfred, as you are.
You have your life. You haven't had^-well, you
haven't had anything done to you. I wish I could
explain it better. — I can't stand the — ^the sort of
ignominy of going on, now I'm scrapped."

"You don't look it, Alec, you don't look scrapped.
Even though you did get drunk at the wedding."

852 BRUTE GODS

"Oh I'* Alec blushed. *'Well, there was nothing
else to do I If you could have seen them all 1 Poor
Mervyn — What did you hear about it t I remember
going from one end of the table to the other and drink-
ing up all the champagne that was left in the glasses. ' '

''Oh, Camivalt"

''No, I wanted to show them what I thought. I
don't suppose I did, though. It was because of the
doctor's jokes, and Mrs. Besine. She looked like a
fat old — what do you call those old women t"

"'ProeuressT'

"Yes, she looked just like a fat old procuress, there
with Nita. Much more like one than Mrs. Bamfield."

"Who's Mrs. Bamfieldt"

"Oh, you don't know. It doesn't matter. My
father said it was very bad form. Not my getting
drunk, so much, he wasn't exactly sober himself.
He made a speech, said that his son's wedding made
him feel that he'd live for ever. 'Non omnis moriar,'
that was what he ended up with, and Mervyn said he
hoped a good deal of him would, anyhow."

"Your brother should have said that in his speech
of response."

"Oh, no," Alec replied gravely, "he only said it
to me. My father didn't hear. He enjoyed every-
thing except my doing that. You know, mopping it
up from the bottoms of the glasses like I did. ' '

"Yes. A sort of gesture. I understand. You
wanted to reduce the whole thing to the level where
you thought it ought to be. Bring it into contempt.
That's interesting."

REFUGE 858

' ' Something like that, I suppose so. A ' gesture. ' I
might have found a better one. Perhaps I have —
or I shall. I suppose I ought to have seen by what
happened to Mervjn, I ought to have — But with
him it was so different."

''We'U be late for lunch,"

*'I'm going."

Wilfred Vail, looking at him, did not press him to
stay. ''You '11 cut through at the end of the near
drivet" was all he said.

"Yes, I'm walking back. Ck)od-bye."

*'Au revoir."

Alec's reluctance quickened his steps. He resented
the memories of Wilfred that came crowding his
brain, he ejected them. He replaced them forcibly
with thoughts of Father CoUett. He recalled his last
interview with the priest, and their parting — ^not a
casual parting like this one, although it was only for
a short time. Father Collett had spoken impressively,
finally. He had made himself believe, by that time,
that God pointed Alec. He had talked of Alec's
youth. "Your wings of the morning. He has shewn
them their way." The boy tried to remember the
words, exactly. He had tried the day after his
visit to Webley, the day of the wedding. . . . Quota-
tions from the Bible. . . . Father Benel, too; he had
quoted something . . . fine . . . poetry. The more
wine Alec had swallowed, the more it had seemed
to him important to remember: he was so sure that
the words would sound finer than ever because of
his being drunk. But his memory had continued to

854 BRUTE GODS

grasp emptily. **What a pity Christianity isn't
true!" he had exclaimed; and then: ''Damn goo'
wine." He recalled now^ with shame, how he had re-
peated these observations at intervals. He wondered
how many times f Had many people heard himT It
wasn't fair to Father Collett. . . . What was it that
Father Collett had saidt — ^''I pray that we may be
found worthy . . . worthy to walk together in the
sight of the Lord. ' ' Yes. Now he remembered quite
clearly. And about religion: "Beligion is above
what the world calls humanity and what the world
calls love.*' "The only remedy," he had called it;
and he had used another word. ''The only tran-
scendence of the evils of the soul, of the life that
most men know." Alec reflected. People like
Matcham fought against what they would call abuses
in Life, bad conventions. They thought they could
do away with them^ and make everything all right.
But the brute gods ... it wasn't only that they had
the conventions and abuses on their side, they had
Life itself. Love that made life, love was in with
them, an accomplice. Wilfred Vail saw that, but
"he doesn't know it as I do, so it doesn't really
matter to him." The last thing Father Collett had
said was: "Enter thou into the peace of our Lord."
Alec assured himself that he would never leave tiie
Order. Whatever might happen, however he might
feel, he would never leave it. The strength of that
resolve would be something to live in, whether he
believed in anything else or not. Resolved, he walked
on, fronting the track cut out before him by his

REFUGE 855

maimed revengeful will. In refuge, he paid homage ;
paid blindly, now, to those outraging brute forces
their greatest tribute, their ultimate tribute.

THE EXD

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